Time and Time Again
by Aietradaea
Summary: It's a steep price to pay, for what's been done. Follows on from "The End of Time" - bit tricky to give a summary without giving anything away or being misleading.
1. Chapter 1

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

**Summary: **O.K., well it's a bit difficult to give a summary of this without giving too much away. Suffice to say, it involves the 10th Doctor, the Master, Wilfred Mott, an OC and occasionally Jack Harkness. And you should probably have seen "The End of Time" for it to make proper sense. No open pairings, just good old epic sci-fi. And angst - much angst.

**Warnings:** Not really anything to speak of, unless maybe you have a thing about bugs. ;) As with all my longer fanfics, though, the theme of insanity is explored in depth - depending on how you read it and how you think of it, this may "unsettle" some people.

This is my first Doctor Who fanfic, and my first time trying to write any of these characters, so I'm hoping it's turned out all right. A note before you read on: almost everything in this fanfic is open to your own individual interpretation. I imply many things, some more strongly than others, and explicitly state very little. Make of it what you will - read it how you like, imagine allusions to your favourite characters, even look for pairing subtext if you want. But most of all, enjoy it! :)

Grab hold of your vortex manipulators, everyone...here goes!

* * *

"Get out of the way."

The Master's eyes flickered sideways, and his razor-sharp mind quickly calculated - there was an option C after all. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as he flung himself to one side and the pistol's shot sounded. The transmitter focusing the signal through the White Point Star exploded in a flash of blinding light and scorching fire - behind it, Wilfred Mott, unnoticed in the nuclear containment booth, shielded his eyes as he heard the Doctor declare,

"The link is broken! Back into the Time War, Rassilon! Back into Hell!"

As Rassilon glared in fury at the Doctor, a distant voice echoed through the tear in the Time Lock, and the white light grew brighter around the Time Lord figures silhouetted before the Immortality Gate.

"Gallifrey falling..."

"You die with me, Doctor," Rassilon spat, raising his gauntlet towards the unflinching Doctor.

"I know," he said. Behind him, the Master struggled to his feet, wringing his hands.

"Get out of the way," came a hoarse voice, and the Doctor turned in surprise to see the Master draw his hand back and hurl a bolt of pure energy past the Doctor and straight into Rassilon's hearts.

"You did this to me!" he snarled, rage twisting his features. "All of my life!" He drew back his other hand and flung another bolt. "You _made_ me!" Now he flung bolts in quick succession, counting out the beat that had resounded in his head for countless years. The unstable life energy inside him threatened to burn him up at any minute, flashing out from his core as he counted, making his failing body almost translucent.

"_One_..._two_..._three_..._four..._"

The blinding white glow now almost enveloped him, and as Rassilon and the Time Lords were sucked back into the Time Lock, the Doctor, squinting in the light, thought he felt something prick the back of his neck. A burst of adrenaline coursed through his body, and with his last reserves of strength, he lunged forwards and threw his arms around the Master's shoulders, fighting the pull of the Time Lock to drag him back. The Master flung out his hands as they both fell, and the bolt of energy that was still streaming from one hand coursed across the hall, shattering the glass of the nuclear containment booth. Inside, Wilf threw himself to the ground, covering his head as the shards of Vinvocci glass rained around him. Abruptly, the flow of energy ceased, and the final link was broken. The white light faded - Rassilon had vanished, leaving only the ruined Immortality Gate and a cold, empty silence.

_I'm alive_... Struggling for breath, the Doctor lifted his head, slivers of broken glass falling from his hair. Wilf did the same, and their eyes met across the tiled floor.

"You all right there, Doctor?" The Doctor nodded, almost unable to believe it himself.

_I'm alive..._

He turned his head. A few feet away, the Master lay, silent and unmoving, his face turned away. Slowly, painfully, the Doctor pulled himself up on his elbows, and then to his knees, and crawled over to his old childhood schoolmate. He gently and hesitantly put one hand on the Master's shoulder and turned him over. A clinking sound broke the silence - Wilf had pushed himself free of the ruins of the nuclear containment booth and was creeping over to the two Time Lords. He stared from one to another, lost for words.

Suddenly, the Master's pale and apparently lifeless face flickered translucent blue - only for a fraction of a second, but they both saw it. The Doctor tensed, put his ear to the Master's chest. A beat, faint, irregular, only one, but there nonetheless.

"D-doctor..." said Wilf cautiously. "Doctor, I don't know if this is a good time, but..." The Doctor looked up, as if becoming aware of Wilf for the first time.

"That nuclear..._thing_... It's making a rather funny sort of buzzing noise."

In an instant, the Doctor became alert and sat up straight.

"It's going into overload," he said numbly. "Any minute now, it's going to go critical. 500,000 rads...should've been contained by the Vinvocci glass. We have to get out of here."

"What, like a nuclear meltdown?" The Doctor gave no answer, and Wilf made a movement towards the door. He looked back over his shoulder to see the Doctor, still crouched on the floor, struggling to put the Master's arm over his shoulder. But he was still weak, probably injured, from his fall, breathing heavily and gritting his teeth with the effort.

"Doctor, you've got to leave him," Wilf urged frantically. "He's going to die."

"_I_ was going to die!" the Doctor gasped. "I can't leave him."

"Well I'm not letting you die with him." Wilf hurried over, a determined resolve hardening him. It was up to him now - the Doctor would _not_ die here, even if it meant... He slung the Master's other arm over his shoulder, almost shuddering at the proximity to this monster, and the three of them, Wilf bearing most of the weight with a strength that defied his age, hurried down the corridor of the Naismith mansion and out into the dazzling sunlight. Behind them, the Doctor's acute senses could make out the buzzing of the Geiger counter on the control panel increasing in frequency until it became a high-pitched whine. He scrambled in his pocket with his free hand for the sonic screwdriver, which he pointed across the courtyard. The TARDIS faded into sight, and Wilf thought he had never in his life been so glad to see that blue box.

"It's starting to leak," the Doctor muttered between ragged breaths. "I can smell it..." They increased the pace...the courtyard seemed to grow in length with every step they took...the TARDIS seemed a mile away...now they were almost running, and Wilf felt as though he could barely keep himself up, let alone the deadweight they carried between them. Finally, it was in arm's reach; the Doctor clicked his fingers, and to Wilf's amazement, the door swung open. No time to question, though - the three of them collapsed onto the blissfully cool metal floor. There was a rushing sound outside, and the TARDIS door slammed. Moments later, the rushing grew to a roar, which surrounded the TARDIS. There was a juddering, and then it was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

If you fancy something humorous, light-hearted and often just plain silly, this fic has a spin-off called "Time and Time Again: The Bloopers" (ID 5947196). The chapters follow this fic, so read this one first to understand the context.

* * *

For a long time, they just lay, bathed in the welcoming pale green glow from the central console. Wilf broke the silence at last with a most unexpected sound: he chuckled wearily.

"My word, Doctor - you've gotten me into some things these past few years, but running for our lives, at my age!" Silence. "So...we're going home now, right? It's all over?"

"The radiation has damaged the external shielding," the Doctor replied. "We can't go anywhere - time or space - until the TARDIS has healed itself." He gingerly propped himself up into a sitting position and ran his hands through his hair.

"But...but can't you fix it or something?"

"The TARDIS isn't a time _machine_." Wilf realized that asking for an explanation would probably only generate more questions - that seemed to happen a lot with the Doctor. But there was one more pressing question that he couldn't leave any longer.

"What about him?" He clambered to his feet and leaned back against the wall, looking down at the Doctor who stared long and hard at the unconscious body of the Master. Only minutes ago, he had held the fate of the universe in his hands, had total dominion over the entire planet, erased the human race from the face of the Earth. Now, hanging onto life by a thread, he seemed so fragile, so vulnerable. But Wilf wasn't about to fool himself.

"He's going to kill you."

"He had the opportunity. He had _so many_ opportunities."

"Well how can you give him another one? What if he takes it? He's not like you, Doctor."

"What do _you _know?" the Doctor snapped, suddenly. "What do you know about _anything_?" Wilf, taken aback, stuttered, and then hung his head.

"No, you're right," he said quietly. "I don't know. I don't know your people, I don't know all this..._time_...stuff...and these _aliens_ and _spaceships_... But I know _you_, sir - if you're who I've always thought you were. I should've trusted you on that spaceship, and I'll have to trust you now."

A lump came to the Doctor's throat as he met the eyes of this humble, unassuming old man. He didn't deserve to be caught up in any of this - he needed to be at home, with his daughter, and Donna. He should be living out his old age in...well, safety, at the very least. And now here he was, having risked his life to save that man in the nuclear containment booth. Sometimes, humans touched him in ways none of his own people ever had.

"You made me proud back there, Wilf."

Wilf sniffed, choked, shuffled his feet, cleared his throat loudly. Then he saluted, and the Doctor returned it with a weak smile.

"So...can't he just...you know, change his body?" Wilf asked, squatting down beside the Doctor and the Master. The Doctor shook his head. There must be some reason why the Master hadn't regenerated already - he wouldn't have used a damaged body as a template for six billion copies of himself...unless he had had no choice.

_"This body was born out of death - all it can do is die..."_

"His Imprimatur is...incomplete, mutated, damaged," he realized aloud. "The resurrection must have been interrupted - he can't regenerate, and his cells can't stabilize his life force. _Artron energy_!" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet and wincing with pain.

"Blimey - it's lucky you're a doctor!" said Wilf, managing a grin. "And what about you - you've got some battle scars there, if you don't mind my saying."

"Two fractured ribs, extensive bruising down my anterior thorax, second degree burns to my right antebrachium and one torn ligament on my left fourth metatarsal," he replied cheerfully.

"Blimey..." Wilf repeated, watching as the Doctor limped around the edge of the TARDIS control room, peering down gaps between the grates on the floor. Whatever he was looking for, he found it, and lifted the grate, grimacing with pain. As he rummaged noisily in the hole, Wilf looked uneasily at the Master. There was another flicker of translucent blue, and Wilf shivered. This couldn't be right... Hadn't they been trying to destroy this madman only earlier that morning, and now here he was, standing by while the Doctor tried desperately to save his life. But that was the Doctor all over - he would have done the same, and more, for any human, Wilf had no doubt. Let alone the only other last remaining member of his own kind...

"I once gave this TARDIS ten years of my life to get it going," said the Doctor from somewhere under the floor. "So if a Time Lord can revive a TARDIS, a TARDIS can revive a Time Lord!" Now he had a pair of wire-cutters in one hand, a set of salad tongs in the other and the sonic screwdriver in his mouth. A few orange sparks flew out of the floor near Wilf, who jumped - but despite his reserves, curiosity was beginning to get the better of him. This was more like the Doctor he knew.

"You could build a rocket out of staples and string, you could," he said. The Doctor's hand emerged from the hole and gestured towards the Master.

"He practically did once." A pair of electrodes on the end of thin, black wire appeared next, followed by the rest of the Doctor. He hurried over, knelt by the Master's head and placed the electrodes on his temples. There was a faint pulse of gold and orange light where electrode met skin, and the unconscious Time Lord's eyelids flickered open a crack. Blue mingled with orange as his own unstable energy showed through, and after just a few seconds, the Doctor whipped the electrodes off and turned to check the power cell under the floor.

"Everything all right, Doctor?"

"Hmmm...yep. Yep, everything's fine." Hastily, he shoved everything back in the hole and slammed the grating, and then sidestepped around the central console, tapping screens and pursing his lips thoughtfully.

"We should be able to move in about... four hours and twenty-eight minutes," he calculated, his eyes flickering across a screen. "Would you like a...shower?"

"Well, I could do with a cuppa," said Wilf. The Doctor turned on his heel and hurried through a previously unnoticed door, and Wilf, with an uneasy glance back at the Master, followed. His eyes widened at the sight before him through the door. Endless stairs, winding up and down, sometimes spiralling, sometimes heading straight to vanish into an unlit corridor.

"My word..." he breathed. "I know you said it was bigger on the inside, but...how much bigger?"

"It's dimensionally transcendent," the Doctor called back over his shoulder. "Some would say it's infinite - which it's not, of course. Not quite, anyway." They headed down, left, down again, around, back up...Wilf had quite lost track by the time the Doctor pushed open a little wooden door which he had to duck to pass, and they found themselves in a working anachronism. The ceiling was thatched, with wooden beams criss-crossing it and bunches of dried herbs hanging from them. The walls were built in rough-cut blocks of grey stone, and straw rustled under their feet on a hard-packed dirt floor as they entered. In the centre of the little room was a plain wooden table with, to Wilf's relief, a glass jar of teabags in the centre. As the Doctor hung a kettle over the fireplace in one wall and lit the fire with an old-fashioned tinderbox, Wilf inspected the teabags. They certainly looked English enough - smelled it, too.

"I modelled this kitchen on the house of a rather nice family I visited around these parts in...oh, must've been the twelfth century?" the Doctor was saying. "Lovely, this area was..."

"I'm not stupid, you know," Wilf interrupted. The Doctor didn't turn around. "When _he_ wakes up, you want me out the way. You know he's dangerous."

_Dangerous_... The Doctor couldn't bring himself to reply. What could he say? It had been a long time since he and the Master had attended the Academy together...so much had happened, so much had gone _wrong_. They had been friends once, then rivals, and then bitter enemies. And it hurt to admit, but Wilf was right.

"He's my responsibility," he said shortly. "There's a door through that wall - just push the fifth brick up, sixth from the right - that'll take you to a bedroom, bathroom, library, ballroom and cinema. I'll be back soon."

"Don't you trust him, Doctor," Wilf warned gravely as the Doctor departed.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

Must've reread, reedited and rewritten this next chapter about a hundred times...while I probably should have been proofreading my practical work essays... :S

* * *

Consciousness returned slowly. The Master tried to open his eyes, but a blinding white light forced them shut.

_Is this it? Have I ascended?_

No - he was definitely lying on something. Therefore, he had a body. He tried to open his eyes again, more slowly this time, and as they adjusted to the light, he could make out that he was in a room of some sort with pure white walls and ceiling. A bed...he lay on a bed...snowy white, like the rest of the room. Where was he? He inhaled deeply, and became instantly aware of something in the air.

_Huon energy... _He was in the TARDIS! The _only_ TARDIS in existence: the Doctor's TARDIS. But why? Now alert, he cautiously moved his legs, swung them over the side of the bed and sat up. The Doctor was nowhere to be seen, luckily, and the only sound he could hear was that which was ever-present...

_One two three four...one two three four..._

_Rassilon!_ Yes, he was starting to remember...he had been used, betrayed, driven insane - by his own people. And now they were gone, all of them - Rassilon and the Time Lords were burning forever in the last Great Time War. Hell, the Doctor had called it, and the Master hoped he was right. He hoped Rassilon had survived those bolts of energy. The longer he lived, the longer he would suffer... A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at this thought.

_One two three four...one two three four..._

With it came a growing, ravenous hunger...he needed to eat, and eat, and eat... As his vision gradually returned to focus, it became clear that the room he was in was vast - it was difficult to tell exactly how vast, since the light appeared to be coming from the walls themselves, which were exactly the same shade of spotless white as the ceiling and floor. And there was something else in the room with him...a mirage? He stood up. A wave of dizziness struck him - he felt so weak - but he remained on his feet and walked unsteadily across the room. A table, dark oak and laden with fresh food. He touched the edge of the table, just to make sure, and then all thoughts of Rassilon, the Doctor and the Time War vanished from his mind as he frantically tore at the food. Ripping cold ham straight off the bone, grabbing handfuls of bread, snatching up piping hot, roast potatoes...he could feel his strength returning with every mouthful...

_One two three four...one two three four..._

Eventually, abruptly, he stopped. His eyes, shining with a wild light, darted around the room, and he stepped back from the table. Physically, he could eat no more - and yet, he was still _so_ insatiably hungry...

_One two three four...one two three four..._

He felt his life force, that exhilarating energy, flashing through him again and again, uncontrollably...his head ached, his whole body burned, the pounding beat was growing louder...

_One two three four...ONE TWO THREE FOUR...ONE TWO THREE FOUR..._

The next thing he knew, he found himself lying on the ground, curled in a foetal position, clutching his head with both hands.

_One two three four...one two three four..._

There was someone else there now - he could sense it. Probably standing over him, mocking him for his loss of self-control... He raised his head. It was the Doctor, sitting cross-legged just a few metres from him, watching with sympathy written clearly in his eyes. The Master eyed him with open contempt and pulled himself up to sit facing the Doctor, huddled with his knees pulled up to his chest.

"So, you weren't just too cowardly to shoot me. You couldn't even bring yourself to let me die."

"It's over, Master," the Doctor replied quietly and expressionlessly. "You can never bring the Time Lords back. It's just the two of us. You're all I've got left."

"Oh - couldn't find another Earth girl to abduct and damage?" said the Master in a teasing tone. He had hit a nerve there - the Doctor averted his gaze, and the Master laughed scornfully.

"So now what?" he continued. "Now that I'm your _prisoner? _You've got what you wanted - what are you going to do with me now?" The Doctor sighed deeply, sucking the air in between his teeth with a hiss, and looked upwards.

"I don't know," he confessed finally, meeting the Master's eyes again. "I did what I had to do, and now-"

"Because I'm _dying_!" the Master interrupted, and he laughed unexpectedly while his flesh showed transparent blue again and again. "Did you forget that? I'm not going to be your prisoner for very long, am I?"

"I can help," said the Doctor. "There must be something - you and me both, we can figure something out. You were one of the greatest minds the Academy ever produced. You can't just-"

"And then what? You won't let me go. I'll just be stuck - here, most likely. What _is_ this room, anyway?"

"One that's not used very often."

"A prison cell."

"If I'm not mistaken," said the Doctor through gritted teeth, "you saved my life back there."

"Hah. Not for _you_, Doctor - what do you take me for? No - I couldn't grant Rassilon a victory. Not after what he did to me." Now it was the Master's turn to look away. "No - after all these years...he gave me _this_!" He pointed sharply towards his own head and closed his eyes, practically spitting his words. "One two three four, one two three four, onetwothreefour, onetwothree…"

"Stop it."

"...twothreefour, onetwothreefour..."

"Stop! Please, stop!"

"...four, onetwothreefour, onetwothreefour..." the Master continued, opening his eyes and sounding almost gleeful now as he stared into the Doctor's eyes. The manic, wild light was back, and he jumped to his feet. "...onetwothreefour...oh, you _must_ be able to hear it now, Doctor!" He laughed again, and as the Doctor quickly rose to his feet, the Master darted forwards and grabbed the Doctor's head with both hands, pressing their foreheads together. For a brief moment, the Doctor's head resounded with the relentless drumming, before he pushed him back with a cry. Both nearly fell, but regained their footing and stood, tense and breathing hard.

"I don't need your _help_, Doctor," the Master hissed, raising his hands from his sides and clenching them into fists. Sparks of blue energy fizzed and crackled around and between his fingers. "Get out! _Get out_! You've humiliated me enough!" The Doctor turned, and as he did so, the Master's eyes widened and he raised his eyebrows. Now _that_ was interesting...that was _very_ interesting... The Doctor turned his head for one last look at the Master, and wished he hadn't. The Master was smiling now, and the Doctor definitely did _not_ like that smile... He stepped up to the wall, which parted to form a door, and then closed seamlessly behind him.

The Master's smile faded and he ran up to the wall - nothing happened: the door must be isomorphically controlled. He pounded on it, the bones visible through his hands several times in quick succession, and then stepped back and flung bolts of energy at all four walls, the ceiling, the ground, and then screamed with rage as he hurled a steady stream of energy at the wall where the Doctor had departed.

"I really wouldn't do that if I were you," the Doctor's voice said from somewhere above the door, as the world spun and faded to black.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

Wilf had sensed that the Doctor was upset about something when he returned to the little kitchen and - with proper English hospitality, the Doctor remarked - had immediately poured two cups of tea. Now they sat in the library through the door, facing each other across a small, round, wooden coffee table. Wilf was reminded uncomfortably of that conversation they had had in the tiny café in London - only two days ago? It seemed like a distant memory now.

"So if we're going to be stuck here for four and a half hours," said Wilf, breaking the uncomfortable silence that hung in the air, "don't suppose I could use a...you got a phone, or something? Sylvia and Donna - they'll have heard about the nuclear explosion by now. They'll be beside themselves."

"The nuclear explosion is still happening," said the Doctor. "It will be until the TARDIS is running. I said we weren't moving _anywhere_ in time or space - we are at a fixed point on the timeline of this exact physical location. Our own timeline inside the TARDIS is no longer relative to the exterior."

"So if I were to walk out that front door..." Wilf began hesitantly.

"...you'd be vaporized," the Doctor finished. He was looking over Wilf's shoulder with distant eyes, scanning the towering shelves of the library thoughtfully without seeming to see anything inside the room. Wilf waited, and eventually, the Doctor blinked and returned his attention to Wilf.

"You can explore a bit if you like," he said, with forced cheerfulness. "There's an exact replica of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon behind the cinema. Or have a look around in here - or is it the library behind that shelf - Gutenberg himself printed me a copy of the Munich Manual of Demonic Magic. The TARDIS can telepathically translate any foreign language inside your head..." He trailed off - Wilf was watching him seriously, trying to catch his eye. The Doctor avoided eye contact and sipped at his cup of tea.

"Where is he?" asked Wilf.

"Safe." The Doctor swallowed hard, blinked several times, and Wilf felt almost painfully awkward, brought repeatedly back to that café. In the number of times he had encountered the Doctor, he had never seen him as he had been over these past few days... Wilf couldn't imagine what the Doctor had been through, what he was still going through. What must it be like, he wondered, to witness your entire race, your entire home planet, just annihilated, as if they had never existed...and then to have them reappear, lingering for a few heartbreaking minutes, but to be forced to banish them with your own hands. Except for one... No wonder he was risking everything to save the Master, Wilf realized.

"Look, I might be just an old man - well, a child next to you - but if there's anything I can do..."

"I shouldn't have got you involved," said the Doctor bitterly.

"Well, you were hardly going to leave me behind, were you?" Wilf pointed out. "And you couldn't have gotten out with _him_ without me. No, I think I got myself into this - my old mum always did say I had a knack of running into trouble." He chuckled as another thought occurred to him. "And did you hear my Sylvia hollering blue murder when we left? She knows me as well as my old mum did - and she knows you too! My word - me and you - quite a pair we make, eh?" The Doctor couldn't help but smile at this.

"So, Donna and Shaun?" he said lightly. "How did they meet?" Wilf was glad of the change of subject, and happily poured two more cups of tea while he filled the Doctor in on the comfortably everyday lives of his family. At one point, he could have sworn he felt something brush past his feet, but when he reached under his chair to swat at it, he found only dust and cobwebs.

Eventually, the tea and conversation ran out, and the Doctor announced he had to check on the TARDIS repair process.

"You stay here," he said, standing up. "I don't want to have to come and find you if you get lost in the corridors of the TARDIS! Just stick to these rooms." Wilf stood up more slowly – he was beginning to feel that morning's mad dash to the TARDIS in every joint.

Stacking the teacups after the Doctor had left, Wilf eyed the kitchen door curiously, and for a moment, he thought he felt something prick the back of his neck.

"Not bloody likely," he muttered with a grin, depositing the teacups on the table and heading for the door. Just a quick look around wouldn't do any harm…

...

An alarming "clunk" came from somewhere beneath the console room, and the Doctor jumped. He gave a round black button on the panel a last frustrated jab, and leaned back against the railing, taking the weight off his injured foot. They had crept forward a fraction of a second, but essentially, they were still stranded. Gallifreyan symbols ticked slowly across a screen, calculating the repair rate of the defensive shielding, but as the Doctor's eyes expertly followed it, the whole screen blanked out and turned a startling shade of blue, Gallifreyan symbols replaced with meaningless white characters. Angrily, he slammed his fist down on the panel.

"No no _no_!" he growled in frustration. "Not now – please, not now, not-" He stopped short, drew a breath and ran his fingers almost apologetically across the console. "Sorry, old girl," he muttered. "You didn't ask for this either." With a weary sigh, he pushed himself upright, seeming only more weighed down by the slump in his shoulders, and turned to head back down the TARDIS corridors.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

In belated response to a suggestion from reviewer areyoumymumie, the Doctor's question in the last chapter about how Donna and Shaun met has been answered in a spoonful of plot bunny stew in my newer Doctor Who fanfic, "Keeping Time" (ID 6652051).

* * *

The Master was sitting with his back to the wall beside the charred remains of the bed when, directly opposite him, the wall parted and the Doctor entered.

"Oh, hello!" the Master said with a falsely sweet smile. "Come to ask for a hand from the greatest mind the Academy ever produced, have we?" The Doctor stopped, surprised.

"_You_ did that? How?" The Master leaned sideways and peered over the Doctor's shoulder, and the Doctor turned to see a blackened hole, still smoking, above the door where the intercom had once been. Behind him, the Master's smile widened and he nodded to himself, satisfied.

"It's my life force," he said, quickly looking back to the Doctor's face as the Doctor turned around. "I can control it how I please." For a moment, his bones flashed through his skin again, but he braced himself and didn't flinch. "You know, I got the idea from a human. Ironic, really. Back when I was Harold Saxon – they gave me this primitive machine they liked to think was a 'computer'. It did that every time I turned it on. Had to get the Toclafane to fix the problem in the end." The Doctor raised his eyebrows, not really sure he wanted to hear where this was going, and the Master stood up to face him, his eyes now twinkling with amusement.

"Wiped out the whole 'IT department'." He laughed loudly, but the Doctor didn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction, and remained expressionless.

"Actually," he said. "I just wanted to talk. I don't like to keep you in here."

"Ah, the cordial host!"

"I don't want you to be a prisoner for the rest of your life."

"Pff," the Master snorted derisively, rolling his eyes. "I'm a danger to the universe!"

"You're only a danger to yourself now. You don't have long, unless you let me help you."

"Oh, and just _why_ would you do that? After all the times I've tried to destroy you – and that pathetic planet you seem so attached to?"

"Because we were friends once. Don't you remember? We were going to travel the stars together, you and me, Mag-"

"My name is the _Master_!" the Master snapped suddenly, cutting the Doctor off, his face growing angry. He flashed translucent blue several times and shook his head, as if to clear it, and the Doctor moved forward to support him if he fell.

"I…don't need…your…_pity_," the Master spat between flashes, grimacing with pain. He hunched down, struggling to fight it, his fists against the sides of his head, and the Doctor could only watch helplessly. Finally, it passed, and the Master looked up at the Doctor as if daring him to speak. The Doctor turned his head away, and the Master pulled himself to his feet again, leaning against the wall.

"Do you want me to fix your timeline navigation apparatus, then?"

The Doctor eyed him suspiciously.

"The TARDIS is stuck, isn't it? I felt it move – oh, about a second or so, I'd guess. Probably the external shielding. But even when that's all fixed, you're not going to be going anywhere without timeline navigation. And you don't know what parts I…altered. You could be stuck here for a very long time, Doctor." Alarmed, the Doctor realized he had a point – and when specialized teams arrived to investigate the nuclear blast, they would find the TARDIS, right in the centre of the destruction outside. He thought of Wilf, downstairs, patiently waiting to be taken home to his family. He thought of Donna, wondering where her grandfather had gone, and Sylvia, unable to tell her and fearing the worst. Especially when she switched on the evening news and heard what had happened – and what had been found – at the Naismith mansion.

"I repair the timeline navigation apparatus; you let me out of this cell."

"Only around the TARDIS," the Doctor cautioned. "And I can seal off any part at any time, remember. All isomorphically controlled." The Master raised his hands in mock surrender and, beaming, he strode past the Doctor and out the door. The Doctor hurried to follow, every sense on red-alert. So many things could go wrong with this…but he had no choice, except to betray Wilf's – and Sylvia's – trust.

"I remember the last time I was in here," the Master mused as the Doctor directed the way through the winding corridors and staircases to the console room. "And do you remember the time before that? More of a Gothic feel, it had then."

"The Eye of Harmony is sealed off," said the Doctor. "Not even I can get in there now. It's safer that way." His hand was in his pocket, fingering his sonic screwdriver inconspicuously. Reluctantly, sadly, he set it to "sedate" and shivered as he watched the black-clad figure ahead of him warily.

They reached the console room and, true to his word, the Master opened up a panel beneath the now blue screen and began untangling a knot of melted wires. The Doctor turned his back and slid aside a roundel; the Master glanced up at the Doctor's back, and then returned to the wires, hiding his smile behind a shower of sparks as he separated three particularly thick ones.

_Sorry, Wilf_, the Doctor thought as he pulled a tiny lever behind the roundel. Somewhere far below, an internal bolt slid across the door to the medieval kitchen and the outside of the door shimmered as it projected a hologram of solid wall across itself. With Wilf safe, there was one less thing to worry about, he reasoned.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

A few steps ahead, a door hissed shut, and Wilf started in shock. Around him, he heard further doors closing of their own accord. Disconcerted, he began heading back the way he came. Perhaps he should have listened to the Doctor after all… He hadn't come far, luckily – most of the doors only led to more stairs and corridors, and those rooms he had come across had been unlit and his nerves failed him to investigate them.

"That's funny…" he mumbled to himself, as he eventually came up against a blank wall. He was _sure_ this was where the Doctor had left him, but the thick oak door was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was the next left turn…

This wasn't right either, he thought, when the narrow corridors eventually led him to a door. This one was about two metres high and made of riveted steel. A few more turnings brought him to a long, wide corridor with grey-painted walls and an arched ceiling – this didn't look at all familiar. But for a second, he thought he heard a noise somewhere up ahead.

"Doctor?" he called cautiously. A knot of guilt was now forming in his gut – as if the Doctor didn't have enough to worry about, he had now had to come and look for Wilf, who had done exactly what the Doctor had told him not to do and gotten himself lost.

"Stupid," he scolded himself, and hurried forwards.

Some way down the corridor, a thick fog seemed to be closing in on him, making him feel quite claustrophobic. He wasn't even sure he could see a ceiling above him any more, and the end of the corridor was nowhere in sight. And the silence was almost unreal – even the sounds of his footsteps seemed to be swallowed up by the oppressive _greyness_. With a shiver of foreboding, he squinted ahead… There! A figure, visible for a mere blink before the mist closed around it again. But it wasn't the Doctor…

"You," he said, sounding almost accusing as he strode through the fog towards the figure.

"Greetings, old soldier. We meet again."

"What…why are you still here? I lost the gun – the Doctor didn't use it."

"And his life was saved – but only this once. The Doctor also lost his life."

"What are you talking about?" Wilf demanded. A thought occurred to him. "And how come, if those other Time Lords had to go to all that trouble putting that noise in the Master's head to contact him…how come you can talk to me like this? I know you're one of _them_ – I saw you, back there."

"Some links are strong…some links can never be broken," the woman answered. Her tone was still serious and formal, but Wilf thought he detected a hint of sadness in her eyes.

"The Doctor," he realized. "I saw him, looking at you… But why can't you just contact him?"

"Our timelines are…were…will be…too intertwined. But you, Wilfred – you stood at the heart of coincidence, and are now poised at the root of all that is still to come." For a moment, her eyes left Wilf and their penetrating gaze landed somewhere behind him, over his shoulder. He turned his head, but could see nothing, and when he turned back, the woman was gone and he was alone in the fog.

"Wait!" he called, knowing it was futile. "Come back! What's going to happen? I thought it was all over!"

"Well, well. Talking to yourself, old-timer?" Wilf's heart skipped a beat – he knew that voice. He steeled himself and stood tall as an all-too-familiar white haired figure emerged from the fog, smiling benevolently at Wilf.

"Don't you give me that look," said Wilf, trying his utmost to sound confident. "I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you. Where's the Doctor?"

"The Doctor is up in the console room," the Master replied, taking a step closer.

"But what are _you_ doing here?"

"Out on parole." The Master threw his head back and laughed, and Wilf quailed, throwing uneasy glances behind him and wondering what his chances were of outrunning the Master. Abruptly, the Master stopped laughing and returned his eyes to Wilf, who stood firm again.

"Oh, don't worry yourself – you might give yourself a heart attack," the Master smirked. "No, I'm just doing the Doctor a little favour, just fixing something for him. I broke it, of course. And then in an hour or so, the TARDIS will be back in action, and you can go home to your precious metacrisis Donna."

"What are you up to?"

"No, what are _you_ up to, Wilf?" The Master's face was humourless now. "You were talking to someone – who were you talking to?"

"None of your business."

"_Who were you talking to_?" He stepped closer again – Wilf thought he could see beads of sweat forming on his forehead, as if he were struggling to contain something.

"No-one!" he protested. "I was lost, that's all. I thought you were the Doctor." The Master narrowed his eyes, and a moment, he seemed distracted, momentarily peeking over Wilf's shoulder. Then he smiled again.

"Well now I've found you. And that's good – because you are going to do something for me when you get back home, Wilf."

"Never," Wilf said defiantly, staring straight into the Master's eyes. The Master returned it, his hazel eyes boring into Wilf.

"Oh no – you didn't hear me properly, Wilf. See, I didn't say '_will_ you do something for me, please'. I said 'you _are_ going to do something for me'. No 'please'." He was staring intently, and Wilf found himself unable to tear his gaze away. His voice was soft, smooth, commanding…

"Slimy bugger." The words seemed to lodge at the back of Wilf's throat – he forced them out, but they emerged weak and unconvincing. In fact, Wilf wasn't sure he believed them any more…

"Now, listen carefully, Wilf. I'm only going to say this once…"


	7. Chapter 7

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

When Wilf emerged from the labyrinth of corridors and into the central console room of the TARDIS, the Doctor's head was hidden in an open panel and there was a mass of wires strewn around his feet. Curious, Wilf came up behind the Doctor and leaned over his shoulder, peering into the hole and squinting to see. To his disappointment, repairing a time capsule didn't appear to be any more exciting than watching Shaun repair Sylvia's computer back at home – just an incomprehensible tangle of wires of assorted sizes and colours.

"I thought you said we had to wait for this thing to 'heal' or something?" he said, puzzled. The Doctor jumped, hitting his head against the underside of the control panel, and turned in surprise.

"Wilf?" He winced and rubbed the back of his head. "How did you get- …how did you find your way up here?" Wilf looked blank, and scratched his elbow thoughtfully.

"Just lucky, I s'pose." He thought about this for a moment how _had_ he found his way back? He hadn't been in the corridors long – he had simply left the room and come back along the way the Doctor had taken him earlier. "Anyway, what's all this?"

"Look, Wilf – the Master, he's damaged the timeline navigation apparatus," the Doctor explained hurriedly. "Even when the shielding is intact again, we can't move without it, so he's fixing it – by the time he's done, the hull will have repaired itself enough to take you home. I thought I told you to stay downstairs."

"I'm sorry, Doctor," said Wilf meekly. "I…I nipped out, just to have a look, you know, and then the door…I don't know, maybe it moved or something… So I came back up here to look for you. Where is he now, then?" The Doctor stood up and removed the pair of black reading glasses he had been wearing.

"The relative time setter was calibrated to timekeepers all over the TARDIS. One of them was out of sync – he's just gone to look for it. He'll be back any minute," the Doctor answered grimly, watching anxiously through the door. "I don't think he'll try anything – there's two of us and only one of him, and the Master usually relies on other people to…well, to achieve his ends. But don't turn your back on him."

"But what about all that…you know…" Wilf made vague waving gestures with his hands.

"'Flim-flam'? No, I'm not sure he has the strength at the moment… Just let me worry about that." He still seemed somewhat apprehensive, Wilf thought privately, already beginning to visualize every possible instance of treachery from the Master. Wilf wondered if the Doctor was possibly a bit too trusting of the Master – after all, emotion could get in the way of anyone's good common sense. Was Wilf too trusting, for trusting the Doctor?

"Be careful, Doctor," he warned. "That…that nutcase – he's nothing if not unpredictable."

"He is brilliant, though," said the Doctor, now examining the contents of the open panel. "A genius, even by Time Lord standards…"

"…as you are so kind as to remind me, time and time again." The Master appeared at the door and idly tossed a hunk of twisted, melted steel to the ground. It clanged loudly and Wilf, already hyper-vigilant, nearly tripped over the back of his own shoes in fright.

"Which is probably why I always seem to end up _fixing_ things for people," the Master continued, sauntering past Wilf without even seeming to notice him. "The _Valiant_ craft, the Archangel network, that idiot Naismith's 'immortality gate'…oh, that rocket to 'Utopia'!" he laughed, watching the Doctor closely. "I certainly fixed _them_, didn't I?" He patted the control panel of the TARDIS affectionately and grinned at the Doctor as if sharing a private joke. The Doctor remained stony-faced, and Wilf shuddered – he probably didn't want to know, he decided.

Immersing himself in the complex TARDIS systems under the control panel, the Master allowed his confidently bored façade to lapse. Still _so_ hungry…he could feel his energy ebbing away with every second that passed, every beat of the drums…

_One two three four...one two three four..._

It was all he could do to remain on his feet, but his pride prevailed and he refused to allow the Doctor or Wilf to detect any sign of his sudden weakness. The Vinvocci medical device had rejuvenated him temporarily, seemingly giving him new reserves of energy – but in that desperate attack on Rassilon, he had drawn on the last dregs of that energy. And now, this resurrected body was rapidly deteriorating. Down in the corridors of the TARDIS, he had been in agony for several minutes after Wilf had wandered off in a hypnotized daze – unable to contain it any longer, the unstable life force had seared through him again and again. Overwhelmed, head pounding with the incessant drumming, it had truly felt, as the Doctor had put it, as though his body was ripped open.

_One two three four...one two three four..._

Tap-tap-tap-tap…tap-tap-tap-tap… He rapped on the inside of the open panel with a pair of wire-cutters and heard the Doctor draw his breath in sharply.

At the sound of the rhythmic tapping, Wilf opened his mouth in indignation, fully intending to give the Master a piece of his mind, but at an almost indiscernible shake of the Doctor's head, he shut it again and scowled. The sound still sent a shiver of dread through him, though, and he gave the Doctor an imploring look.

"_He will knock four times…"_ How could he rest easy at home, knowing that he had left the Doctor alone here?

"You always manage to surprise me, Doctor," came the Master's muffled voice from inside the hole. "A gun. You, of all people. What's next, then?"

The Doctor averted his eyes, and for a moment, he faltered. Head bowed, he turned away. The Master withdrew his head from the hole and made eye contact with Wilf, who could have sworn he saw him wink. As he had been in the mansion, Wilf was decidedly unsettled – but back then, the Master had had the upper hand. He had been taunting his captives. What could he possibly have to be so pleased about now?

"What are you up to?" Wilf growled.

"Me?" the Master answered innocently, using the edge of the control panel to pull himself to his feet with his free hand – in the other hand, he held a bundle of wires. The Doctor was watching again now, Wilf was relieved to note. "Up to something? Never!" He grinned – and then, to Wilf's alarm, yanked the bundle of wires hard, tearing them out of the cabinet in a shower of sparks. Wilf stuttered, shocked – but the Doctor finally appeared pleased, to Wilf's confusion, and tapped a screen.

"Brilliant! You're brilliant, you are!"

The Master leaned back against the railing, raising his eyebrows in a self-satisfied manner.

"Well I did break it," he pointed out. He laughed spitefully at Wilf, who was still stuttering. "I _rewired_ it – what, you think I'd want to be stuck in here with _you_ for all eternity?"

"No need for that," said the Doctor, fastening the panel back over the hole. "Wilf here helped save your life." As if in response, the Master's body flashed transparent again and he grimaced, gripping the railing tightly.

"Starving…" he muttered, and made for the door, stumbling slightly and half-running. Wilf and the Doctor exchanged glances, but while Wilf's was doubtful, the Doctor's was more troubled and sad.

"He can't go anywhere," the Doctor reassured him.

"But why-"

"His body is burning up his life force. He needs huge amounts of energy – but it's getting worse. Now he's burning it up almost as fast as he can consume it." For a moment, Wilf thought unsympathetically that the Master was getting exactly what he deserved…but then he looked at the Doctor, and saw as if for the first time the lines of worry on his young face, the terrible sadness behind his dark eyes.

"Still, you said you could help, didn't you?" he said optimistically. "If anyone can sort him out, it's you, Doctor."

The Doctor stared thoughtfully and sorrowfully into the air and said nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

Waiting was not something that tended to happen very often with the Doctor around, but that was exactly what they did. Just waited, in silence, while the shielding steadily repaired itself around them. The Master was still nowhere to be seen by the time, about twenty minutes later, the whole TARDIS juddered and the roar of the powerful nuclear explosion around them returned, jolting Wilf and the Doctor out of their separate thoughts. It howled around them like a hurricane, and then faded away to a distant hiss, before disappearing entirely, leaving the same uncanny silence they had almost gotten used to.

"Right," said the Doctor, visibly brightening. "Let's get out of here!"

"Need a hand with anything?" Wilf offered, as the Doctor limped around the central control panel on his injured foot.

"Eight, if you've got them," the Doctor replied. "We'll be in for a bumpy ride unless you pull…_that_ lever, there, when I say so. And then those three buttons, biggest one first. Oh, and the handle by your elbow there." Wilf thought sentimentally back to his first driving lesson as he readied himself by the panel. The column in the centre began pumping and pulsing, the familiar whooshing groan filling the room.

"Lever," called the Doctor, and Wilf tugged hard.

"Wa-hey!" he chuckled. "I'm flying a spaceship!" The Doctor, catching sight of the old man's boyish delight, grinned.

"I'll have to give you a proper lesson someday," he said. "Buttons – now!" Wilf happily obliged.

In no time at all, the reassuring sounds of the TARDIS in flight ceased, and Wilf breathed a sigh of relief.

"Well, you're home," said the Doctor. Wilf eagerly went to open the TARDIS door, but hesitated.

"Are you sure you'll be all right, Doctor?" he said concernedly. "I mean, with…_him_."

"Yeah, we'll be fine," the Doctor replied brightly. When Wilf didn't look convinced, he added, "That's my responsibility. Go on – your responsibility ought to be waking up about now." He remained by the control panel, watching the door to the rest of the TARDIS cautiously, and although Wilf would have liked Sylvia to see the Doctor returning him safely home, he understood – the last thing the universe needed was the Master seizing control of the time capsule.

"I'm sure we'll see each other again," the Doctor continued, and Wilf nodded, suddenly unable to speak. There was a lump in his throat, and beneath that, a cold sense of foreboding.

"Goodbye, D-Doctor," he choked, and left the TARDIS.

Outside, the air was clear and refreshing, the street empty, and Sylvia was standing on the doorstep, beaming from ear to ear. He raised his hand in greeting and began hurrying forwards, but stopped after a few paces. Already, though, the TARDIS was fading from view.

...

That evening, Donna, firmly settled on the living room settee and still wrapped in a blanket at the insistence of Sylvia, announced that she was watching the evening news.

"What? But you never watch the news!" Sylvia exclaimed.

"Well if I'm going to _miss_ things, and _you_ never tell me anything…" she protested, and emphatically pointed the TV box and pressed the button. Sylvia and Wilf exchanged worried glances – could anything that was said on the news trigger Donna's hidden memories?

"Hang on," Wilf interrupted loudly. "I'm going to check the footy first." He grabbed the box and hastily changed the channel. The TV blared with the roar of a stadium and a commentator's voiceover escalating in pitch as a player weaved his way towards the goalposts.

"Oi!" Donna interrupted, indignant. "Give me that!" There was a short tussle over the box which Wilf, exhausted from the past few days' events, lost.

"…wi-fi companies in Britain and the US say that investigations will continue, but were quick to assure the public that the chance of further problems is remote."

"An internet outage? Is that it?" Donna demanded in a huff. She tossed the box onto Wilf's lap, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Onto political news now," the reporter continued, "it has been a year and a half since the fatal shooting of former Prime Minister Harold Saxon – and his successor, the current Prime Minister, has announced he is stepping down from the post. Amid speculation that his resignation is due to a lack of public support in the wake of the landslide victory by Saxon, the Prime Minister has cited his family life as his reason for giving notice."

Wilf had tensed and gripped the arm of the chair hard at the mention of that name – but a moment later, he relaxed. In fact, he felt more relaxed than he had felt for days…years, even. Almost…serene.

"The election is looking to be an almost clean slate for Parliament, with every party now operating independently under a new leader after the assassination of the entire Cabinet in 2008."

A tingling buzz of excitement was creeping its way up Wilf's spine, although he couldn't put his finger on it at first. For a moment, in the back of his mind, an image lingered – a pair of piercing, hazel eyes, penetrating right to the back of his skull…and then it was gone. Wilf stood up and headed over to the kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of tea. On second thoughts, he opened a glass cabinet and removed a glass bottle, the contents of which he added a dash of to the tea, to calm his nerves. He sipped the tea thoughtfully, and then announced to the living room

"I could do that."

"Eh?" said Shaun, sitting beside Donna with his arm protectively around her shoulders.

"That," repeated Wilf, gesturing towards the TV, which was now reporting on a yacht race in Weymouth. "Run for Prime Minister." Shaun snorted incredulously and Donna shrieked with laughter.

"You?" she howled. "You couldn't even get the bridge club to make you their treasurer!" Sylvia stood up, a stern look on her face, and strode over to Wilf.

"That's enough of _that_," she snapped, snatching the glass bottle out of Wilf's hand. "Go and have a cold shower."

"No," he said firmly. "No – I'm going down to the electoral office." He picked up his coat and hat and stomped over to the door.

"If you're going to the pub, just say so!" called Donna.

"If you're going to the pub, wait for me," Shaun put in.

"If you're going to the pub, you can forget about it!" said Sylvia angrily, but Wilf was already gone.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

The Doctor ran his hand sentimentally across the control panels of the TARDIS. They were hurtling through the time vortex, but he had yet to set a destination. Thousands of places and times, he had visited in this capsule, but none came to mind now. On any other day, with a human passenger who shared his wanderlust and thirst for adventure, he might have let the TARDIS make a choice for him, and his fingertips thoughtfully caressed the levers for randomizing dimensions, before moving on to the dials that showed their location in time, currently spinning wildly.

Suddenly, a paralyzing shock ran through his body, as if a bolt of lightning had struck him square on the back of the head.

_Oh no, please_, he thought as he fell to his knees. His hand groped blindly under the control panel and smacked the "emergency landing" button hard, and the whole TARDIS juddered as it left the time vortex. Struggling to catch his breath, he heard footsteps approaching from the doorway to the rest of the TARDIS. The Master strode up onto the deck and smiled down at the Doctor, one hand raised and crackling with energy.

"Did you really think I'd just sit back and put on my seatbelt while you dragged me all across the universe?" he said calmly. "Just be your _passenger_?"

"I'm trying to help you," the Doctor replied, winded. "Can't you see? I just want-" Another bolt of energy struck the ground beside the Doctor, cutting him off.

"By doing _what_, Doctor?" the Master spat. "You don't know how to help me. You can't. No – all you can do is keep me locked up in the TARDIS while you wait for me to die."

"I know you better than that, Master. You would never give up like this."

"You didn't know me well enough to see _this_ coming, did you?" The Master laughed, and the Doctor struggled to support himself on one hand while his other hand, concealed from the Master, fumbled in the pocket of his coat.

"Now, where should we go?" the Master pondered, tapping out his rhythm of four on the edge of the control panel with his fingers. "Or more correctly, where should _you_ go? I'm not as cruel as you, Doctor – I'm not going to keep you in here any longer than I have to!" He giggled at his own joke and began setting dials. Beside him, the Doctor began slowly and painfully pulling himself to his feet. The Master casually glanced at him in amusement, and then his eyes widened as he saw the sonic screwdriver in the Doctor's hand.

"Hey, no no no – what are you- Ah!" he began, but was cut off as raw energy rushed through his body and he doubled up in pain. In an instant, the end of the sonic screwdriver was against the side of his head and he collapsed. The Doctor caught him as he fell and lowered him gently to the floor.

"I'm sorry, old friend," he said sadly, looking down at the stunned Time Lord.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes. Nor do I own the organizations referred to, and my mentioning them does not in any way imply that I am affiliated with them - I just needed a bunch of organizations that are usually referred to by their acronyms. But I do own the politicians that make their entrance in this chapter.

* * *

"This is going to be _chaos_!" the Foreign Secretary moaned as he glumly surveyed an inch-thick pile of papers on the table before him.

"Prime Minister, we really must ask you to reconsider," said the Chancellor. "We have a total of 536…well, we have to call them 'parties'…all intending to run for government. It's ridiculous." The Prime Minister rubbed his aching head and blew his nose. He had tried to call in sick that morning, but the Cabinet wouldn't hear of it.

"So let them," he sniffed.

"But really, Sir," protested the Home Secretary, reaching over and taking the top sheet of the pile of paper. "Every man and his dog is on here! Just about every organization in Britain is calling themselves a political party and putting themselves down to run the country! I mean, look at this - W.P.O., M.U.S.A., P.E.T.A., U.K.O.S., I.V.A.B.S…"

"O.K.," said the Secretary of State for Defence irritably.

"Yes, they're here somewhere…C.P.G.S., C.O.S., A.F.F… I mean, who the hell are _they_?"

"S.H.U.T. I.T.," the Defence Secretary spelled, and the Secretary of State for Transport snorted into his coffee.

"There's six members of the public on there too, running as independent candidates," said the Secretary of State for Health, peering at another of the sheets of paper.

"My point exactly!" the Home Secretary exclaimed. "I mean, who do they think they are?"

"Well, three are rock radio DJs," the Health Secretary read. "Two are university students. One is some pensioner."

"University students? Where did they get £500 from?" the Prime Minister wondered.

"I told you those grants were being spent constructively," a sarcastic voice could be heard to say as the room erupted in talking. The Prime Minister rubbed his bleary eyes and sneezed. He considered calling one of the small swarm of PAs that usually followed him around and asking for a hot lemon and honey drink, but they seemed to have – quite sensibly, he thought – made themselves scarce. Suddenly, the First Lord of the Treasury rose to his feet and thumped on the table with his fist. The whole table shook and the room fell silent, except for the Transport Secretary, who squeaked as hot coffee splashed onto his hand.

"The media would love this, wouldn't they," he growled, glaring around the room, and sat back down. For several long seconds, the assembled politicians looked at one another, no-one daring to be the first to speak. Then, another sneeze from the Prime Minister broke the silence and the Foreign Secretary cleared his throat.

"We need to look at the current political climate," he said cautiously. "Relations with the United States are still tense, and they'll be watching this election closely after what happened to President Winters."

"They'll trust us even less if there's another situation with the wi-fi networks or whatever it was," the Health Secretary pointed out.

"Well they didn't have the job of dismantling the Archangel Network, did they?" the Defence Secretary glowered. After all the work he and his department had had to put in over the past year and a half, the events of last Christmas had come as a real blow. His technological advisers were quick to come up with a theory – residual corrupt data from old cellphones that had been running on the Archangel Network, combined with new high-speed wireless technology and the usual phone network overloads that came every Christmas...somehow, although the details eluded the Defence Secretary, giving people hallucinations of the man who had implemented the Archangel Network in the first place.

"Oh, it always comes back to bloody Saxon, doesn't it?" the Prime Minister complained. "How long are we going to be working in the aftermath of that madman?"

"I think we can expect repercussions for some time yet," the Chancellor replied. "He shook up the entire political system…"

"That's one way of putting it," the Home Secretary snorted.

"It is," the Chancellor continued, "just like they said on the news. A clean slate. No-one in this room has been in Cabinet for longer than a year and a half, and since Saxon's supporters were affiliated with such a range of different parties, no-one has an advantage over anyone else in the coming election."

The ministers shuffled uneasily, uncomfortably aware that they were debating in the very room where the previous Cabinet had been murdered. The First Lord of the Treasury considered filing the list of electoral candidates in his office somewhere before the other Cabinet members noticed his name on it. The Health Secretary absorbed himself in polishing his spectacles on a silk handkerchief. The Transport Secretary wondered if he believed in ghosts.

...

Back in his office that afternoon, the Defence Secretary undid his tie, reclined in his leather chair and drew a deep breath. The breath caught in his throat, however, as he spotted his in-tray, which had overflowed out into a cardboard box that someone had considerately placed beside it. With a barely concealed groan, he leaned forwards and plucked a handful of sheets off the top to skim through – and groaned again a few minutes later. Legal papers, portfolios and jargon, demanding in stiffly formal terms that he sign a series of documents to declare that he had done all he could to ensure that every last trace of the Archangel Network was erased from world telecommunications. Requests for interviews from every political journal from here to Dunfermline. And a letter from an American organization who referred to themselves as a "church", asking in very ambiguous terms to purchase the blueprints of the Archangel Network.

"Bloody Archangel…" he swore, scratching at a bubble in the varnish of his desk. Would this affair _ever_ be over? The furnishing staff had done a terrible job with the varnishing, he noted. He had requested a new desk the moment he had sat down at it, but was told that the budget for parliamentary office furniture was already overdrawn from rebuilding the massive table in the Cabinet meeting room. Upon seeing his desk, though, they had relented and sent it off to be revarnished.

There was a knock at the door and the Defence Secretary's fingernail pierced the varnish bubble.

"Come in," he called, and his PR manager entered the office.

"Afternoon, sir," she said cheerfully. "Thought you might like to go over these interview requests."

"Not especially," the Defence Secretary yawned, distractedly picking at the varnish. "Can't it wait?"

"If you decline to comment, the press will inevitably put the blame on you."

"Ugh."

"They need someone, sir. And I'm afraid being the Secretary of State for Defence, you will be their first target, seeing as how the last Secretary of State for Defence was…" There was a ripping sound as the frustrated Defence Secretary pulled a little too vigourously on the edge of the flake of varnish and a whole sheet peeled back. The PR manager leaned over the desk and peered at the exposed wood, whistling through her teeth.

"Well. Certainly left his mark, didn't he?"

The Defence Secretary shuddered as he ran his fingertip along the rows of holes in the desk. It was as if someone had repeatedly stabbed a compass into the wood with unerring precision, pricking groups of four tiny holes, as evenly spaced as printed text, thousands of times over.


	11. Chapter 11

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

Back to the familiar territory of proper Whoniverse characters now...

* * *

One two three four...one two three four...

All he was aware of was the drums. It surrounded him, resounded through every fibre of his body, penetrated to his very bones.

_One two three four...one two three four..._

He knew that consciousness would bring pain, and for as long as he could, he clung to that sound. It was all he had now…it was all he was…

_One two three four...one two three four..._

Slowly, although he pushed them away for as long as he could, other sensations began creeping in. A throbbing, stinging ache in the side of his head…hunger, so strong it felt as though his insides were tearing at themselves…cold and discomfort all down his back – now that was unexpected. Where was he? He moved his fingers cautiously against the surface he lay on and felt cold metal. Reluctantly, he forced his eyes open and allowed them to focus unsteadily on the outline of the Doctor, who sat on a step beside him.

"Don't try that again," the Doctor warned softly. The Master's mind felt clouded and fuzzy, and he could barely move his lips, although he felt, deep inside, the resentment he wanted to express. Powerlessness…he hated it with a passion.

_One two three four...one two three four..._

"Now, I can't let you go – you've proven that to me so many times since we left Gallifrey," the Doctor continued. "But I can't just watch you killing yourself with every breath. I can't, I just can't…I-" His voice cracked, and he drew a shaky breath before continuing. "I can't be alone again. And I know that would hurt me as much as it would hurt you to let yourself die. Pride doesn't matter any more, Master. It's just the two of us now."

_One two three four...one two three four..._

The drums pounded on and on…and it _hurt_. More than ever. Every beat brought back that image of Rassilon, standing there in the white glow of the Time Lock.

_One two three four...one two three four..._

"_You are __diseased…"_

_One two three four...one two three four..._

"Make it stop…"

...

For an early March day, they couldn't have picked a better one really, Sylvia thought appreciatively as she kissed her daughter on both cheeks. Donna looked radiant in her traditional white bridal gown, and Shaun wasn't too bad himself, in the smart suit he had hired for the occasion, she observed. Best of all, Donna was probably the happiest she had been for a long time, barely able to contain her excitement, half laughing, half screaming. Confetti fluttered everywhere like windblown snowflakes; cameras clicked and whirred; beside her, Wilf was bellowing out for three cheers. Her old dad had been acting most peculiar over these past few months – starting, she couldn't help thinking, when he had stepped out of the TARDIS that morning on Boxing Day. Something about him just hadn't seemed quite…well, quite _Wilf_. And there was this whole business with the election… She had tried to talk some sense into him more times than she could count on both hands, but he was stubborn as a donkey when he had his mind set on something, and this was no exception. Why, she had demanded. Why – at his age, with no experience in politics, just out of the blue? He didn't even seem to be able to explain why himself, just insisted that the country needed "some good old-fashioned common sense" behind it.

"This photo is _just_ with _friends_," Donna was announcing, herding the wedding guests into a motley clump. Sylvia and Wilf, with their own friends, moved back obediently, while the photographer knelt to take the shot.

"How about it, Wilfred?" Minnie suggested to Wilf.

"Eh?" he answered absently.

"Well, it's never too late!" she said coyly, dumping a handful of confetti over his head.

"Oh, uh…no, no it's never too late for anything…" he murmured distractedly, stretching to peer over Minnie's head. Minnie, undeterred, picked her way forwards, wobbling in a new pair of high heels.

"I'm going to catch that bouquet!" she called over her shoulder. Sylvia turned to see what Wilf was looking at, and her eyes widened. A small group of journalists and press photographers were clustered by the side-gate of the churchyard, pointing in their direction.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" she said in disbelief, turning back. "Dad? Have you seen-" To her dismay and astonishment, Wilf was already hurrying towards the unwelcome guests. The journalists were clicking their pens on their notepads; the photographers stood back to let him through the gate. Sylvia threw her hands in the air, exasperated – what was the world coming to?

"Mr. Mott?" a journalist asked as Wilf approached.

"Yes, that's me," he confirmed, blinking at the photographers.

"We understand you are the last of six members of the public still campaigning as independent candidates to be elected in the June general election," the journalist gabbled, pen poised above a notebook.

"Well…I…yes. Yes, I am."

"And this is your…daughter, getting married in this church?"

"No…no, that's my granddaughter. Donna – Donna Temple-Noble."

"You're a family man, then, Mr. Mott?" Cameras clicked, and Wilf wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to say.

"So tell us, Mr. Mott – these grand aspirations. Why you?"

Wilf was starting to feel a little overwhelmed – everything was moving so fast all of a sudden, and he wondered for a minute if it was all a bizarre dream. But no – of course things were moving fast. The election was only four months away, after all. And he knew what to do… How? Had he been told? Briefly, something touched at his consciousness – an intense, captivating pair of hazel eyes; a voice, gentle, confident, reassuring…

"What Britain needs," he began, and his voice grew in confidence, "now more than ever, is the voice of the Common Man. Only could the _people_ truly know what the _people_ need…"

Pens scratched furiously on paper, every pair of eyes focused on the old man as he spoke – seemingly, all of sudden, with a new voice. Not the voice of a nervous, eccentric old man…but the voice of a leader, a true revolutionary, hidden in the suburbs of London and emerging from the shadows at last to serve his Queen and country.

The public would love him.


	12. Chapter 12

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

The grunts, clicks, shrills and bleeps of hundreds of languages from as many planets filled the spaceport bar, a thriving undercurrent to the music emitting from an old Earth jukebox in the corner. Here, at a busy intersection between galaxies thriving with life of all shapes and sizes, a lone asteroid became a social destination for much of that life, sustained by its own artificial gravity field and atmosphere. A Raxacoricofallapatorian loped past a small group of Hath at a table near the door, a Sycorax scanned the bar for his own conspecifics, the staccato tones of a Judoon rumbled beneath the crooning of the music.

"_I'm a country girl, I ain't seen a lot_…"

Cool blue lighting played on the chiseled features of a ruggedly handsome man solemnly sipping a drink beside the bar, opposite the door. He hardly glanced up as the two female humanoids on one side of him departed and the seats were filled immediately – but as one newcomer spoke, he turned his head immediately.

"Well, well, Captain. I should've known I'd run into you here!"

Jack grinned and shook his head in confusion, and then leaned around hopefully to peer at the person who accompanied the Doctor. A stranger, definitely humanoid, dressed in black and with a black hood pulled up to hide their head.

"Doctor!" Jack greeted the Doctor with a two-fingered salute. "What're you doing here? And who's the latest catch?"

"Just a stopover, I'm afraid," the Doctor replied casually, although Jack could tell that he was warily keeping a close eye on the stranger. "Had to make an emergency landing, and this seemed like a convenient place to pop in. We're trying to track down two Vinvocci – they're a salvage team, and they might have access to some technology we might find useful."

"Well, they're bound to have passed through here," Jack grinned, gesturing around at the bustling bar. "That's a lot of 'mights' for you, Doctor. So who's 'we'?"

"Someone I'm trying to help," said the Doctor quietly and more seriously, turning his attention to the barman as if to evade any further questions.

"Anything I can get you gentlemen?" said the barman, leaning on the bar in front of the trio.

"Anything…everything…" a hoarse voice answered from under the stranger's hood, and Jack raised his eyebrows.

"Planning a long night, are we?" the barman chuckled, plucking a glass from a high shelf and expertly splashing the contents of several colourful glass bottles into it.

"That's not a 21st century Earth chick," Jack observed, trying to meet the Doctor's eye. Was he deliberately blocking Jack's view of the stranger? The barman deposited a glass of strong-smelling liquid in front of him, but the Doctor pushed it away down to the end of the bar where a grateful tentacle drained the glass.

"Something to eat, then?" offered the barman, not discouraged, and the stranger nodded urgently, gripping the edge of the bar with white-knuckled hands. As the barman turned to leave, the Doctor tapped him on the shoulder.

"Have a Vinvocci salvage team been around here recently?" he asked.

"Mmm… Sort of spiky, short, red?" said the barman.

"No – that's a Zocci. Completely different. Still spiky, but tall and green."

"Can't help you there, then. Sorry, mate," the barman apologized and hurried away. The Doctor seemed disappointed and sat up to look around the rest of the bar. Jack took the opportunity to lean around him and flash the stranger a winning smile.

"So, you been with the Doctor long?"

"We've known each other a while," the Doctor interjected, leaning forward to once again position himself between Jack and the hooded figure, who turned their head away.

"Mysterious as ever, huh?" said Jack, sipping from his glass. A tiny Adipose baby came wobbling along the bar, burbling happily, and the Doctor and Jack followed it with their eyes until it reached the stranger, who, unprovoked, reached out and flicked it off the edge of the counter. It squeaked in fright and toddled across the floor to disappear into the mass of legs and tails. The Doctor appeared angry, but before he could speak, Jack burst out,

"Hey! What d'you think you're playing at?" The stranger turned to face them, and Jack caught a glimpse of a face. He leaned past the Doctor and yanked back the black hood.

"You!" Jack jumped to his feet, outraged and staring in disbelief at the Doctor, who also rose to his feet.

"It's O.K., Jack. I know what I'm doing." Jack ignored him and took a step towards the Master, who hastily stood up.

"What do you think you're doing here?" Jack demanded. "You were dead! And you deserved to be, after what you did!"

"Well here I am – I would have thought you, of all people, Jack Harkness, would be the last to question that!" the Master laughed.

"Sit down! Both of you!" the Doctor ordered.

"Oh no – not until I've given this one what's coming to him," Jack growled, taking a step towards the Master, whose eyes lit up with mirth.

"Oh, yes – we had some good times, didn't we? How many times did I kill you on the _Valiant_?"

"Apparently not enough."

"Well, one more won't hurt then, will it? Actually, it will – all the better!" The Master raised both hands and rubbed them together, and sparks of blue energy began to fizzle across his skin. Jack cracked his knuckles menacingly.

"CUT IT OUT!" the Doctor bellowed. Most of the bar had fallen silent by now and were staring at the Master and Jack. Two Sontarans had removed their helmets and were on the edge of their seats with excitement.

"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?" came a voice from behind the Doctor, and a shadow fell across them. The barman had returned, backed by the Judoon from across the room, which towered over them and narrowed its tiny eyes.

"You stay out of this," Jack snapped. "That psychopath has killed me more times than you have brain cells." There was a crunch as the Judoon slammed its hand down on the bar, splintering it and crushing Jack's glass, and it pushed its face close to Jack's.

"Neither of you look very dead to me," said the barman coldly. "But if you wish to alter that fact, would you mind taking it outside?"

"Yeah, all right!" Jack agreed, making a move to leave.

"No-one's going anywhere – it's under control," said the Doctor, pulling his wallet out from an inside pocket of his coat and flashing a blank piece of paper at the Judoon and the barman. With a snort, the Judoon stepped back behind the barman, who scrutinized the paper and then nodded respectfully.

"Very good, sir." He turned away to clear some glasses and the Judoon stomped back to its seat.

"There will be _no_ violence from either of you," said the Doctor, through gritted teeth.

"Oh, come _on_!" Jack exclaimed. "Don't tell me you're-" He stopped, startled, as the Master suddenly flinched, as if in pain, and hunched over, covering his head with his arms. His tightly clenched fists were transparent blue, the bones showing through his flesh. For several seconds, the energy flashed through him repeatedly, flickers of skin showing as he struggled to resist it. It passed as suddenly as it had appeared, and he straightened up, breathing hard and glaring at Jack.

"I have to help him," the Doctor said quietly. Jack looked doubtfully from one to the other, his eyes suspiciously scanning the Master, who turned his face away. The silence between the three was now masked by the cacophony of sounds around them – with the hope of a brawl now gone, the bar patrons had returned to their own conversations.

"I am _so_ hungry…" the Master muttered, and there was a brief glint of blue energy across his face.

"You don't look too good," Jack admitted, finally unclenching his fists. "What happened to him, Doctor?"

"Long story," said the Doctor glumly, leaning back against the bar. "But that's why we need to find those Vinvocci. There's a Vinvocci medical device that seemed to help, for a little while at least – maybe if it was fully functioning and not reprogrammed to…" He trailed off, and Jack thought he saw a hint of a smile on the Master's face for a moment.

"Well, I don't like it," said Jack, "but if that's what you reckon you have to do, Doctor."

"It is," said the Doctor firmly, in a tone that forbade any argument.

"In that case, as it happens, I did run into a bunch of Vinvocci, night before last – a mining crew, I think they were. Maybe they can help you out. They were headed to the asteroid belt off the Zeppelin Cascade." Jack thought for a moment, and then added "My team had some sort of Vinvocci equipment they found on Earth. If you don't mind my asking… any connection?"

"That one's destroyed," said the Doctor. "The nuclear bolt overloaded." Jack raised his eyebrows, unconvinced, and took his seat.

"Ask no questions…"

"...I'll tell you no lies," the Doctor finished cheerfully and clapped Jack on the back. Jack nodded to him, and then reluctantly to the Master, whose face was now once again hidden under the hood.

"Guess I'll be seeing you round then, Doctor."

"Oh, I should think so. You certainly get around." He lowered his voice, and leaned in to mutter something into Jack's ear. Jack swiveled around on the seat to see a young man beside him, and when he turned back, the two Time Lords were gone. He swept the crushed remains of his glass into a pile, casually leaned his elbows on the splintered bar and prepared his immaculate white-teethed smile.

"So Alonso," he began, and the young man looked up in surprise. "Going my way?"


	13. Chapter 13

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

"I _can't_ watch!" Sylvia sniffed in disgust, standing up and heading for the door.

"Aw, c'mon!" said Shaun from the settee, while Donna turned the volume up impatiently.

"No. I am _not_ watching my father make a complete fool of himself on national television."

"Might be a laugh," Shaun suggested hopefully.

"Exactly!" Sylvia exclaimed. "There's no integrity in the media these days. They wouldn't think twice about ridiculing him for an 'and in other news' item."

"Onto political news now," the TV blared, and Donna shushed them hurriedly.

"Oh, come _on_!" said Sylvia, raising her voice to be heard. "You don't seriously think they'll put him on the real political news, do you?"

"…from a quiet suburb of London is fast becoming a household name – and with the election only three months away…"

"Look at that, Mrs. Noble!" said Shaun. "I told you, didn't I?"

"…when he first came to the attention of local newspapers and was interviewed and photographed at his daughter's wedding…"

"His _what_?" Sylvia snorted. Donna elbowed Shaun hard and pointed at the screen.

"Look at that – there's us! Oh, I look like a bloomin' bedside lamp in that veil!"

"You look like a newly fallen snowflake," said Shaun, and Donna playfully clouted him with a cushion.

"…invited Mr. Mott to meet our political journalist near Downing Street just this afternoon…"

"Oh, so _that's_ where he's been all day," said Sylvia. The scene on the TV switched to a busy street in London and Sylvia turned on her heel and marched upstairs.

Onscreen, the interview seemed to have begun mid-sentence when the camera view panned to Wilf. He always seemed to take a minute or two to collect himself, and the reporters knew this. But to their viewers, first impressions were everything, and the cameras were careful to control the first impression they broadcast. The great British public loved a rags-to-riches tale, a lowly nobody rising to seldom dreamed-of heights. Headlines were already lined up for the next three months, and with the right lighting, the proper exposure…

"…because I am one of you. I've lived in England all my life, raised my family in England, I've paid my taxes like an honest citizen, I did my duty overseas – and now I'm ready to do my duty again. To serve my Queen and country and make the people's Parliament just that – for the people, by the people. I _am_ one of you. Vote for me, and you vote for yourselves."

...

The journalist tugged her coat around her and pulled down her hood over her head as she hurried down the street. It seemed Winter hadn't quite loosened its grip on London just yet, and a chilling wind was picking up, flecked with the first drops of icy rain. She fumbled in her handbag with numb fingers for her PDA and checked her appointments list, shielding the screen with her hand.

"Great…" she muttered, stuffing the gadget back in the bag. Standing outside the Houses of Parliament until teatime, and then elbowing her way through the mob of rival journalists that would have gathered by then to try and accost the Prime Minister about the reasons for his resignation. Again. Not for the first time that day, she longed to be back in her cozy apartment, sitting back in front of the news with her two cats warming her lap – watching someone else standing in the smoggy drizzle waving a microphone in vain at the balding men in their suits and ties who sat all day in the Cabinet room debating goodness only knew what.

She shivered again as she thought back to earlier that afternoon – but not from the cold. This Wilfred Mott – there was something not quite right about him. Call it gut instinct, perhaps – she couldn't quite put her finger on it. At first, he had seemed much as he appeared: nervous, stammering, somewhat out of his league. And then it was as though a switch had been flicked. His eyes took on a distant look, just for a fraction of a moment, and then the voice that came out of his mouth was like another person. A staunch, stalwart pillar of confidence; he knew exactly where he was going and what he was doing, and he could take Britain with him. The words flowed from him – words that would have taken a team of PR managers a week to arrange and craft to perfection. He certainly wasn't saying anything new – more just common sense, really, like he himself had said. But that had a kind of refreshing appeal to it, the journalist couldn't help thinking. It wasn't dressed up in stuffy, political terms that no-one could really understand. It really was, she thought to herself, like he was speaking on behalf of the layman, the man-in-the-street, Joe Public…

Still, there was just something not quite right… She shuddered as she remembered the last election – and a similar feeling that she had gotten about Harold Saxon. Her friends and neighbours had been aghast when she had informed them that she hadn't voted. Somehow, she still hadn't been able to bring herself to vote against him – but neither could she make herself believe that ticking the Saxon box at the ballots was the right thing to do. So she had stayed home with her cats and a hot cup of cocoa and watched an old science-fiction movie, while outside, the world knelt.

She had been right, in the end, when the news had broken about the Archangel Network and Harold Saxon's subtle brainwashing of the voters. Wilfred Mott wasn't doing anything like that – she was pretty certain of that. It was just in that moment when he got that look in his eyes, before he started speaking…something very _Saxon_ about him, just passing across his lined face, perhaps his stance, the way he held his head, the way… No, she couldn't place it.

Lost in her thoughts, she stumbled into another pedestrian, who yelped and jumped back, dropping an armful of books.

"Sorry!" she apologized hastily.

"N-no, it's…it's O.K., it's O.K…" the person stammered. He was a student, tall and thin, his hair long and straggling over his shoulders, large metal-framed glasses dwarfing his lowered eyes. They both bent to pick up the books, and as the journalist straightened up, she noticed the student craning his neck as if to look behind her.

"Wh-what's that, on your…" She was about to turn her head, but he seemed to change his mind, shaking his head hard, embarrassed.

"Oh no – it's nothing, n-nothing's there… S-sorry. Sorry."

"It's O.K.," the journalist smiled, handing the books back to the student, who took them carefully and tucked them under his arm with the rest.

"Thanks…thanks…" he said with an awkward smile, and quickly turned and walked away. The journalist watched him for a few minutes, weaving his way in and out of the people, dodging elbows and umbrellas as if they were electric, before he vanished into the throngs of commuters who had just been released into the streets from their offices. She pulled back her hood and went to check her back again, curious, but a briefcase clipped her knee, and her attention was quickly turned to glaring at a businessman who barely glanced at her as he scurried past.

Just before she pulled up her hood, she thought she felt something prick the back of her neck.

_Oh, stuff it all_, she thought to herself. She turned on her heel and headed back the way she'd come. Cabinet would be harassed by one less reporter tonight. Her cats needed brushing.


	14. Chapter 14

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes. Do own the Formicidae, though - and a bunch of carnivorous plants on my windowsill that dealt with my own problem of the arthropod kind!

* * *

"There's something you didn't tell me, Doctor."

The Doctor looked up from the control panel screen, puzzled. The two Time Lords faced each other across the TARDIS console, while the capsule orbited above a vast planet mottled with pale brown terrain and purple seas. For days now, the Master had maintained a stony silence. He spent most of the time in the rooms and winding corridors of the rest of the TARDIS, out of sight, although the Doctor had tried his best to maintain communication to some extent. Now he was helping to pilot the TARDIS – the planet below was massively overpopulated, with most of its surface both on land and underwater densely covered in buildings separated by narrow alleys barely wide enough to accommodate the TARDIS. Landing would take a degree of precision not possible with just one pilot.

"Back on Earth, Rassilon said something to you."

"What was that, then?" The Doctor stepped back from the console and leaned back against a pillar, hands in his pockets. Opposite him, the Master watched him closely as if gauging his reactions. Every so often, there would be that telling flash of translucent blue through his face and hands – his energy was now almost constantly depleting itself.

"'The last acts of your life'. What did he mean by that?"

"It doesn't matter now."

"It was part of that prophecy, wasn't it? The one about the 'end of time' and 'something returning'?"

"_It_ _doesn't matter_."

"You were supposed to die back there." The Doctor said nothing. Expression hardened and angry, he absorbed himself in the screen again.

"So was I," the Master continued, more softly this time, and their eyes met again. The Doctor's face relaxed into a sad smile.

"We should both be long dead by now," he said. "And the state you're in – I don't know how you manage to keep going. You always were a fighter, you were." The Master raised his eyebrows, and a wry smile crossed his face between flashes of his dissipating life force. Only his eyes wavered for a split second with each surge of energy.

"So," the Doctor said after several long minutes of silence had passed. "The Entomerous Systems, Formicidae Colony 246. Worth a try. Up to a bit of tight parking?" The Master steeled himself, forcing back the waves of energy to concentrate on the controls under his hands. Sidestepping between four of the six sides of the hexagonal console, the Doctor deftly flicked switches and the TARDIS pulsed out of the planet's orbit and into the vortex. Co-ordinates were set and dials adjusted to a minute level of accuracy. The Master's fingers darted expertly between several rows of buttons, and then closed around a lever and began to slide it towards him, slowly and carefully.

The Doctor would have said that what happened next was nobody's fault. A sudden wave of unstable energy tore through the Master – his vision blurred and swam, he tensed himself as every cell in his dying body felt as though it were on fire, and on reflex, he clenched his fists, jerking the lever so hard it nearly came free in his transparent hand. There was a sickening crunch from outside, and the whole TARDIS lurched, nearly knocking both of them off their feet. Seeing the Master still doubled up in pain, the Doctor abandoned his controls and hurtled around the deck to support him, both falling to their knees as the room jarred several more times before finally coming to rest.

"Well, we made a bit of a mess of that!" said the Doctor nonchalantly, standing to check the screen. A tiny red light, almost obscured by the surrounding controls, was flashing – "DIMENSIONAL INSTABILITY", it was labeled – but when the Doctor tapped it, it went out. The Master remained where he was, silently struggling to regain control of his life force. His ragged breathing was quickly drowned out by a pitter-pattering sound from outside, as though a light rain had begun to fall.

"Sounds like we got there," the Doctor observed. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," the Master replied firmly, using the railing to pull himself to his feet. The Doctor's face showed concern, but if the Master noticed, he pretended not to and followed the Doctor out the door.

The surface of the colonized planet was smothered, as far as the eye could see, with towering structures built of football-sized lumps of brown matter, concrete-hard and cemented together with brown paste. The structures were fairly regular in shape and mostly round, like massive mounds forming rolling hills that stretched to the horizon. Across, between and from holes in the sides of the alien buildings, Formicidae were now swarming towards the TARDIS, which stood in the centre of a field of destruction about a hundred metres across.

"Uh-oh…" the Doctor muttered as the creatures surrounded them, clicking to each other and waving their antennae, tasting the air that the newcomers breathed. Already, workers had begun collecting up the debris and scuttling away to take it down into the nest for reconstruction once the disturbance had passed. A dozen or so burly soldier Formicidae stepped forwards and raised themselves up on their back two pairs of legs to face the Doctor and the Master.

"Sorry about all this," the Doctor began, with an apologetic grin. "Bit of a bumpy landing. We're here to look for-"

"Sssss!" one of the soldiers interrupted, clicking its powerful jaws menacingly.

"The vertebrates bring destruction," another added.

"They are a threat to the Queen," hissed a third.

"No no no – we won't go near your Queen," said the Doctor hastily, looking worried. "We were just going to- Hey! Give that back!" The workers had swarmed around the TARDIS, and suddenly a group of them hoisted it up and began weaving away through the crowd with it.

"You can't do that!" the Master shouted after them, and his bones showed through his flesh as his voice became angry.

"This one is defective," a soldier remarked, running its antennae thoughtfully over the Master, who recoiled in disgust. "It was probably being returned to their nest to feed their young."

"It is ours now," said pair of workers in unison, stepping up to seize the Master.

"They are both ours," two more workers clicked with excitement, moving towards the Doctor. "We will feed our Queen with vertebrate flesh."

"Oi! That's not allowed!" the Doctor exclaimed, swatting at a curious antenna that probed his hair. "The Entomerous Systems are governed by statutes, aren't they? You can't eat a member of another species without contacting their Queen and issuing a formal claim." The Formicidae shrunk back, clicking disconcertedly.

"Contain them," a soldier ordered.

"In externally-licensed facilities," the Doctor reminded them.

"But-" The Master went to object, but was cut off abruptly as several soldiers raised their heads and sprayed the two Time Lords with a sour-smelling mist. They felt their legs turn to jelly and become numb as the paralyzing toxin penetrated their airways, working its way rapidly through their bodies.

"You're sh'pposed to…" the Doctor slurred, before consciousness faded out and they slumped to the ground. Two workers scooped them up and carried them underground, and the crowd dispersed to begin repairing the destroyed mound.


	15. Chapter 15

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

"The 'Cat Burglar', London's latest notorious serial burglar, appeared in the District Court today, charged with 72 counts of breaking and entering and burglary."

The student sat in his usual spot, perched on the edge of the settee, attention focused entirely on the TV. His last lecture had finished early but the other students would still be in class, so the normally lively common room was deserted and silent.

"He was apprehended in April after a local journalist leaving work early returned to her apartment and caught him in the act."

The camera panned to a young woman getting into a car outside the courthouse, and although the student couldn't recognize her, he leaned forwards and squinted at the screen. Just for a moment there, before the car door had slammed, he could have sworn he caught a glimpse of something. That same something, whatever it was, that he had thought he had spotted when he had bumped into a woman in the street five weeks ago…

"84 cats were retrieved from the Cat Burglar's suburban house, and local authorities are in the process of identifying them and returning them to their owners. Onto political news now, and the First Lord of the Treasury, himself currently campaigning to run for Prime Minister, has spoken out against the credibility of newcomer opponent Wilfred Mott…"

Onscreen, a man stood behind a podium bedecked with microphones outside a government building somewhere. He was speaking, but his words were lost to the watching student as a group of people walked past the window, chattering amongst themselves, and the words became indiscernible. Knowing it was futile, the student turned the volume up anyway, straining to filter the sounds and make out what the man was saying. Not that he had ever really been able to follow politics anyway, he thought to himself, although his father was always pleased when he kept up to date with current events. Maybe political news was pushing it, though. He would be glad when this election was over – all those new colourful billboards springing up all over the place made him decidedly uncomfortable.

Now the cameras were on another man, standing outside a house somewhere on a quiet street. "Wilfred Mott – political candidate", a digital banner on the screen identified him as. The student sat up in surprise and shock as Wilfred Mott briefly turned towards another camera to his left, and then back to the front. There it was again! The same thing as that woman. But what was it? He found himself willing Wilfred Mott to turn around again, just once…

The door to the common room opened and the student started as he felt people behind him, flooding into the room, laughing and talking. Frustrated, he turned the volume up, but winced as the high-pitched sound and sickly smell of chewing gum penetrated his senses when a girl sat down beside him.

"How's it going?" she said amicably.

"I'm good thanks, how are you?" the student replied automatically, standing up. A group of young men in full football-supporter regalia had moved in front of the TV.

"Ho-LY, it's loud!" one of them almost shouted to the student. "You deaf or something?"

"No," the student replied, craning his neck to try and see around the group, who were now sniggering about something and watching him. "Um…don't suppose…d-don't suppose you c-could…"

"You coming to town tonight?" another of the group asked loudly.

"No…p-probably not…" the student answered, making a beeline for the door. As it slammed behind him, he shook his head hard and rubbed his forearm vigorously. He needed to get more sleep…there was probably nothing behind Wilfred Mott…or the journalist…these things happened occasionally…

...

"It's only a month away!" the First Lord of the Treasury exclaimed, thumping his fist on the table. The other two politicians seated around the small wooden table jumped. "Do you hear me? We've got a _month_ to get our act together!"

"I don't see what else we can do, really," said the Health Secretary. "This isn't going to be a normal election campaign."

"We haven't had a normal election campaign for years," the First Lord grumbled. "This Mott fellow isn't even campaigning properly! No posters or anything!"

"What was it he said again, when the newspapers asked him about that?"

"That he doesn't have thousands of the taxpayers' pounds to pour into assaulting people with gigantic images of his ugly mug," the Health Secretary recounted, unable to disguise the twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"He's being ridiculous!" the First Lord snorted.

"He'll go down in history," the Chancellor pointed out. "This whole decade will. Harriet Jones, Harold Saxon, and now Wilfred Mott."

"Well Jones turned out not to be up to the job, Saxon was a psychopath – goodness knows what'll come of Mott!" the First Lord exploded.

"Does something about him…I don't know – does he remind you of Saxon?" said the Health Secretary hesitantly.

"He reminds me of my old granddad, if anyone," the First Lord replied dismissively. The Chancellor was silent for a minute, and then he spoke with an unmistakable hint of…was it pride in his voice? The other two couldn't be sure.

"I voted for Saxon."

"You and 98% of the country," the First Lord snapped irritably.

"I still would, you know."

"You _what_?" the Health Secretary spluttered. "He was _mad_! He killed the American President on international television!"

"No-one's really sure what they saw," the Chancellor continued calmly. The other two said nothing. "Besides, did you ever meet him? He was _brilliant_! An absolute genius! If that whole alien contact business hadn't happened, God only knows what he could have done for this country."

"Well for goodness sake, don't let _anyone_ outside this room catch you saying that," the First Lord warned him, glancing nervously over his shoulder as if expecting a cameraman to be leering over him, gleefully recording the meeting. "I don't want it getting out that my right-hand man is still pro-Saxon."

"So what are we going to do about Mott?" the Health Secretary put in, anxious for a change of subject.

"All out offensive," the First Lord declared, thumping his meaty fist on the table again. "We've got to show him up for what he really is – or rather, what he's not. Double the campaign efforts – and make it _professional_."

"How much more money do you need," sighed the Health Secretary glumly.


	16. Chapter 16

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

Far beneath the surface of the planet that had become Formicidae Colony 246, a vast chamber had been tunneled out of the rock. A path wide enough for two Formicidae to pass ran around the edge and spiralled down, narrowing like a whirlpool to a point at the bottom. And like a whirlpool, it glittered, as light from orbs lining the path reflected off rows and rows of glass tanks that made up the walls of the chamber.

The Doctor had awakened to find himself in one of these tanks, an empty cell of seamless glass about ten paces long and five wide, with a door glued shut by some kind of sticky amber resin. Air holes just big enough to poke a finger through were scattered across the ceiling and must have opened onto some kind of vent to the surface, as a warm draught could occasionally be felt seeping through them. There was a thin slit above the door, just within arm's reach.

He lay still for several hours before moving. The glass didn't even quiver when he thumped on it, although a few of the passing Formicidae turned their heads. When he attempted to use the sonic screwdriver to melt the sticky resin that sealed the door, one stopped and spat an extra glob on top of the melted part. He threw the screwdriver to the ground and leaned back against the glass sides of the tank, running his hands through his hair.

The motionless form of the Master a few feet away stirred, slowly coming to. He murmured something unintelligible and tried to push himself into a sitting position, but his arms gave way.

"Don't try and move," the Doctor advised him. "Formicidae toxin takes a while to clear from muscles."

"Grea'," the Master managed to mumble from where he lay near the back of the tank. His skull showed through his face a few times as he experimentally moved his mouth muscles before trying again. "Though' you said they 'ad statu'es or s'mming?"

"They have to keep us undamaged and contained in approved facilities until they contact our Queen. These are the approved facilities, I'm afraid. Trust me, it's a whole lot better than trying to put us in suspended animation by dunking us in hibernation pheromones. As for contacting our Queen…" He began pacing up and down, still somewhat wobbly from the toxin, and the Master's eyes followed him.

"So h'ngry…" he said eventually.

"Actually, so am I," the Doctor admitted, and he turned and pounded on the glass. "Hey! Could do with some food in here!" A Formicidae stopped and raised itself up onto its back four legs, putting the front two with their articulated pincers against the glass. It waved its antennae in the air and a moment later, another came and joined it, hurrying along the path towards the tank.

"The destructive vertebrate is moving," the first clicked, and the second cocked its head to one side, watching the Doctor who stepped back from the glass to face both of them.

"What about the other one?" the second wondered, and it rapped on the glass. The Master turned his head and glowered at the insectoid creatures as, with a considerable effort, he struggled into a sitting position, leaning against the back of the tank.

"Need a…big...can o'…bug spray…" he said venomously, trying to catch his breath. The two Formicidae emitted alarmed hisses and reared up, waving their segmented legs in the air.

"It threatens the Queen!" they clicked, and the other Formicidae who were scurrying heedlessly past now stopped and turned. One of the ones beside the tank touched the antennae of a tracker, smaller than the others at only about four feet high and with quivering papillae at the ends of its antennae.

"Identify it," the first Formicidae ordered. A soldier raised its bladelike pincers towards the slit above the door and began to slide them through.

"Oh no – not like that," said the Doctor hastily. He spat on his palm and held it up to the slit, and the tracker climbed partway up the door and tasted his hand with one antenna.

"Vertebrate," it confirmed. "Time Lord. Has recently passed through Vinvocci space and unidentifiable spaceports."

"Send an emissary to locate their colony. Their Queen may negotiate their return."

"The stronger one may devour the damaged one. Provide nutrition."

"And hurry up with it!" the Doctor called after the Formicidae as they scuttled away.

"How are they expecting to find our 'colony', then?" said the Master as the Doctor came away from the glass and sat down beside him.

"They'll send out a few dispensable drones to try and retrace our steps," the Doctor replied. "When they lose our trail – which they will pretty quickly, because the TARDIS doesn't travel in tangible space – they'll start trying to look for others of our species…"

"…which they won't find," the Master finished, more than a trace of bitterness in his voice. The Doctor nodded sadly.

"So what are we going to do?" the Master demanded. The Doctor shrugged.

"Legally, they have to keep us alive until they either find our colony or a destroyed homeworld. Well, me at least. You're already 'damaged', so technically if you died, they wouldn't be responsible. And it would save them a lot of trouble."

"Oh, fantastic!"

"They'll be looking for a long time, though – gives us plenty of time to figure out how to get out of here."

"And just how do you suggest we do that?" the Master spat, now furious. "Go on – it was your idea to come here!"

"It was worth a try, wasn't it?" the Doctor protested. The plan had been simple: a clean landing, negotiation and then go on their way. It was said that the oldest Formicidae Queen was thousands of years old, sustained by the chemicals cultivated in the seas of their colonized planets which could restore even damage at a cellular level. Maybe they had been clutching at straws after their failure in Vinvocci space – scanners had detected and identified the Master's DNA the moment they emerged from the TARDIS, and the Vinvocci had seen them off in no uncertain terms.

"So how exactly did you plan to bargain with them, then?"

"Smarties," said the Doctor matter-of-factly. "They love 'em." The Master laughed cynically.

"Is this how you 'see the universe', then?" The Doctor said nothing, running his hand thoughtfully over the smooth glass floor beneath them. He reached out to pick up the sonic screwdriver, changed the setting and aimed it at the floor.

"I thought so," he said. "Vinvocci glass."

"Well that's unbreakable, isn't it?"

"Not quite, actually." The Master raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"You broke it – back on Earth, at the Naismith mansion," the Doctor explained.

"Oh?" The Master raised one hand, but before he could summon the energy to manipulate into a bolt, it seared through his whole body uncontrollably and he drew in his breath sharply, clenching his fists so tightly the nails dug into his palms. He rested his head back against the cool glass and closed his eyes with a deep, shaky breath.

"I can't," he said in a strained voice. "Don't have the energy. I'll burn up."


	17. Chapter 17

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

They were everywhere. The student even found himself checking over his own shoulder every time he looked in a mirror. Most of the reporters he saw on the news had them now, and an increasing number of the public figures they encountered. Police officers, politicians, celebrities – every time the cameras turned towards them, the student found his eyes drawn inexplicably over their shoulders, and there it was.

Where had they come from? Why were they there? And most importantly…what were they? All he could tell was that they were there. No doubt about that. But somehow, they were maddeningly evasive – the person would turn towards him; another person would step in front of them; those on television, the camera would pan away from just at the last fraction of a second.

And now there was one in the room with him.

The lecturer had faced the front for the entire class so far, using the computer mouse on the desk to point to diagrams on the projected powerpoint. Around the theatre, other students were scribbling frantically on pads of lined paper, but alone in the back row, the increasingly panicky student had written nothing. All he could think about was this…_thing_, this elusive presence. That, and how his final exams were only a week and a half away and he had hardly slept a wink for days.

"So with the functional melanocortin receptor allele, the biochemical pathway inside the melanocyte triggers the production of eumelanin…" the lecturer was explaining. The student rubbed his forearm hard until the skin was pink with heat from the friction. He picked up his pen and began nibbling at the lid. A sound and bitter smell shot through his senses like a bullet as a woman near the front to his right slurped hot coffee from a thermal mug, and the plastic lid splintered between his teeth. Glaring daggers, he turned his gaze in her direction, and the pen fell from his hand. The woman was leaning back against the wall, but _it_ was unmistakably there.

"I can't do this!" he half-sobbed, flinging his pen and paper to the ground and fleeing the lecture theatre. The lecturer paused as the heads of the class turned to the source of the noise.

"Now I know the exam period is stressful for you all," he began as the door slammed behind the distraught student.

...

With a trembling hand, Winston adjusted the tuning of the radio and a crackling of static was replaced with gentle strings in the soft tones of a classical concerto. Hand still trembling, he reached for his cup of tea on the end table but had to replace it as steaming drops threatened to spill over onto the carpet.

"I still can't believe this is happening," he said for what must have been the sixth time.

"It's very exciting, isn't it?" Minnie's eyes were lit up with a youthful twinkle as she nudged Wilf in the ribs. Wilf was probably the calmest of the twenty or so people packed into the Nobles' tiny kitchen-living room. While all around him, the close friends and family they had invited over were almost breathless with anticipation, he felt only what could almost be described as quietly confident. Everything hinged on this evening; Britain would never be the same again if all went according to plan. And it would. Those eyes told him so, lingering in his subconscious, reassuring, encouraging, instructing…

The final chords of the concerto sounded and the room became so silent that even the spitting of rain against the window became like a drumbeat.

"First counts are in for the general election," a bland female voice announced on the radio. There was a clink of china as Sylvia went to put down her cup of tea and almost dropped it, and everyone jumped. The female voice was now joined by another radio announcer, male and equally dry.

"And can you tell us how it's looking so far?"

"Well, it's going to be a close one," the female voice answered. "The two major contenders – newcomer Wilfred Mott and the current First Lord of Treasury, as independent candidates – lead votes by a very narrow margin above the 38 assorted parties and candidates who have so far won enough votes to be assured of a seat in Parliament."

"We're in for another historical election, then," said the male voice. "It seems ironic that the record-breaking landslide victory of Harold Saxon should then be followed by the closest neck-and-neck race of recent years."

"Let's take a look back-"

"Oh, get on with it!" Winston burst out. There was a ripple of nervous laughter, but still the tension hung in the air, so thick it almost clung to their skin – like a clammy fog, Wilf thought. He glanced out the window; the light was fading and the sky a steely grey, light rain dying down to be replaced with tendrils of mist creeping across the empty street. Almost without realizing, he shivered. That fog…he had forgotten something…a grey expanse of fog…he had been looking for something, he was lost…and he had found… A memory hovered so tantalizingly close, yet just out of reach, like an almost-forgotten dream. Was it a dream? All of a sudden, Wilf felt inexplicably uneasy and his stomach lurched with dread. That pair of eyes was beginning to move into his conscious thoughts now, coming into focus – why hadn't he paid attention to them before?

"You all right there, Gramps?" Donna's voice cut through the haze that his mind had become, and the fog lifted.

"I think he's entitled to be a bit nervous, don't you?" Sylvia chided her, and Wilf chuckled, once again certain – not long now, and everything would be all right.

"I voted for you, you know," said Minnie, taking Wilf's elbow in her arm.

"Oh Minnie," he laughed. "You really are a menace!"

"So have you got the numbers?" the female radio announcer's voice was saying, and now everyone in the room was gripping someone else's elbow, hardly daring to breathe.

"Yes, we've just received confirmation and the all-clear," the male voice affirmed. His voice seemed to be playing in slow-motion, like a tape on a dying Walkman. "It looks like one man has made the history books tonight. Mr. Wilfred Mott has just become the Prime Minister of Great Britain."


	18. Chapter 18

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

This chapter was _fun_! And I suspect you lot might quite enjoy it too... ;)

* * *

A great shadow fell across the undulating plains and the Formicidae scattered, vanishing down tunnels in the sides of their mounds. Slowly, the shadow narrowed and came into focus as being cast by a massive vessel that descended onto the surface of the planet with a roar of jets that scorched the dry earth black where they touched down, crushing several mounds into powder. It was tall and cylindrical, dirty greyish-brown in colour, and stood upright on three jutting legs. The air became rank with alarm pheromone as the ship landed.

"Intruders! Destruction!" the Formicidae hissed, and the pattering of millions of spindly feet crescendoed to a rush as they surrounded the ship. "Protect the Queen!"

A ramp door at the bottom of the ship fell open with a clang, crushing a Formicidae soldier. At the entrance, a figure appeared, silhouetted against a glaring light that stung the insectoid creatures' eyes. Soldiers clustered around, several raising stinging barbs on the joints of their forelimbs.

"A threat to the Queen!" they clicked. "Destroy it!"

"Oh yeah?" the intruder replied, swinging a long, metallic object over its shoulder with its single pair of arms. "Just you try!"

...

The trail never seemed to end. Day in and day out, numbers never fluctuating, the workers ran to and fro around and around the spiraling path of the containment chamber, disappearing through the tunnel at the point far below bearing morsels of plant matter and emerging with sticky spheres of dirt with which they then made their way back up to the surface. At one point, the Doctor had watched, revolted and sickened, as they had hauled a gargantuan, writhing worm out of the tunnel – it had crushed several of the workers with its flailing body before the rest swarmed on it and dismembered it with their powerful mandibles. Now the last remains had gone, transported away with wordless efficiency to feed the colony.

The Doctor slammed both his hands against the glass in despair, and a five-legged worker limping past dropped its burden over the side of the path. It hissed angrily at the Doctor, who waved cheerfully and gestured.

"Go on – go and get it, then!"

"The Queen is always hungry," the worker clicked.

"She doesn't know the _meaning_ of it…" a voice whispered from behind the Doctor. The Master, gaunt and glassy-eyed, huddled in a corner, knees hugged tightly against his chest and head resting back against the glass. The Doctor came over to him and slumped down against the wall of the tank beside him.

"I'm so sorry, I really am," he said helplessly. "I honestly thought I could help you. I…I had to try…" The Master turned a glazed stare towards the Doctor, although he hardly seemed to see him. He was silent for a long time, before managing to force words from his mouth.

"You didn't exactly give me much choice."

"I know," the Doctor sighed, burying his head in his hands. "And I'm sorry. I wanted to help you – you have to believe me."

"Oh, I believed you, Doctor – more fool me." The words cut deep into the Doctor's conscience as he looked at his former friend and enemy, barely clinging to life by a thread, frail and wraithlike with barely the energy to speak. The few morsels of dried fruit the Formicidae pushed through the slit above the door every day would barely have been enough to sustain the Doctor alone; he took for himself just a bite.

"No backup plan this time, then," he said. "I'm surprised, actually – you always did have your options covered."

"What makes you think I didn't have one?"

"Because you wouldn't have let it get this bad."

"Hah. I reached a new low when I accepted help from you. I wouldn't have done that unless I really had no other choice."

"So you didn't have one?"

"Didn't work."

"I don't want to know, do I?"

"I'm dying, Doctor. Nothing you can do about it." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, and the Doctor bit his lip and bowed his head, all 900 years of his life weighing on his shoulders like lead.

Time passed, and the Doctor found himself lifting his head and pricking his ears. There was a change in something – the endless pattering of Formicidae feet against the compacted dirt had stopped, just for a moment, and then escalated rapidly. Glancing out through the glass front of their tank, the Doctor was intrigued to see the Formicidae abandoning their loads and hurrying towards the surface.

"Hello – what's going on?" he wondered, climbing to his feet to get a better view. Distantly, he thought he could make out a faint rumbling sound. Within minutes, the containment chamber was deserted except for the unfortunate captives in their glass tanks, many of whom could now be heard banging and scratching at the glass that imprisoned them. The Doctor snatched up the sonic screwdriver and turned it on the glue that sealed the door, which slowly but surely, drop by drop, began to melt.

He had barely got through a finger's length when there was a resounding crash from far above and he nearly dropped the screwdriver. He fumbled, and then hastily shoved it into the inner pocket of his coat as the sound of footsteps came echoing down the spiral chamber. Not insect footsteps, though – bipedal footsteps that sounded suspiciously humanoid, and were running as if their life depended on it.

"Hey!" the Doctor bellowed, pounding on the glass. "Hey – over here! Hello?" The footsteps hesitated, and then there was a slapping sound of feet hitting hard dirt somewhere above their tank – the person had jumped over the edge of the path onto the next path below. Again and again, they jumped, until a figure leaped down and landed nimbly in front of the Doctor – and he almost collapsed with relief when they turned to face him with a dazzling, white-teethed smile.

"Captain Jack Harkness!"

Jack saluted, hoisting a large, rather unwieldy flamethrower over his shoulder.

"Looks like I'm going to be saving your neck this time, Doctor," he grinned, and peered around the Doctor. "Suppose saving just one neck isn't an option, though."

"Absolutely not."

"Right – stand back, then." The Doctor retreated to the back of the tank and stood beside the Master, who was silently trying to struggle to his feet. The Doctor took his arm, pulling him up as they both shielded their faces. The flamethrower roared into life and noxious fumes flooded the air from the melting resin. Moments later, the door fell outwards and over the edge of the path, clanging as the unbreakable glass bounced off the compact bedrock the chamber was hollowed out of.

"Better move quick – sounds like the bugs brought reinforcements," Jack warned them with a worried glance upwards. The Doctor made for the door; the Master went to follow but staggered and nearly fell, barely able to remain on his feet.

"Come on, I've got you," the Doctor choked through the fumes, supporting him as they stumbled out of the tank and up the path after Jack. A few feet on, they passed another tank, whose pitiful inhabitant – an emaciated reptilian creature – sent the trio a look of such hopelessness that the Doctor stopped.

"Jack – we have to help them!" he called.

"Easier said than done," Jack replied, firing up the flamethrower again. A wave of massive soldier Formicidae was blocking the path, but at the sight of the raging flames, they quailed.

"Yah! Back!" he growled, thrusting the flamethrower towards them and advancing, pressing them back up the path.

"Jack…"

"There's nothing we can do, Doct- Hey! Get back!" For a brief second, the flamethrower died, and the soldier Formicidae rushed forwards, only to narrowly miss being singed when Jack pumped the trigger hard. "This baby's nearly out of juice as it is." The Doctor thought he would never forget the agony in the reptilian creature's yellow eyes as he tore himself away and the trio pushed their way up the path and out into the dazzling sunlight, where Jack whirled around the Doctor and the Master, repelling the enraged Formicidae that now surrounded them.

"Is that a _Judoon_ ship?" the Doctor exclaimed, incredulous, catching sight of the towering cylindrical rocket when his eyes had adjusted to the light.

"Yup – hotwired it," Jack answered matter-of-factly, pumping the trigger of the flamethrower again. "But talking of out of juice, I'm afraid we're taking your transport on the way home."

"The TARDIS?"

"The one-and-only. I took the liberty of locating it before springing you two from that dungeon." It wasn't often that the Doctor could hardly believe his ears, but that was exactly what he found himself thinking as Jack forged their way through the masses of insect creatures towards a tunnel in the side of the next mound to the one they had emerged from. Just as they reached its narrow entrance, the Master fell to his knees and two Formicidae soldiers emitted triumphant hisses, raising their forelimbs and flinging their stingers. With the reactions of one who had spent more than his share of lifetimes on the run, Jack was between the Formicidae and the defenseless pair. He ripped the barbs out of his arm, hauled the Master to his feet and shoved him roughly down the tunnel; Jack followed, and the Doctor came last, activating the sonic screwdriver above the entrance to send sonic waves vibrating through the mound's structure and dislodging the brown masses which came crashing down in a cloud of dust to block off the door.

Outside, the thwarted Formicidae colony raised their voices in ear-splitting clicks and screeches. The Queen would be most displeased.


	19. Chapter 19

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

Holding his hands steady, Wilf noiselessly slid the heavy wooden door shut behind him. There was a faint click, and then silence.

_Finally_!

Wilf hadn't had a moment's peace for over a week now. When it wasn't the media (which was rare), it was foreign dignitaries; representatives from left, right and centre; corporate big-business tycoons; the motley crew of well-dressed politicians who made up the rest of the government; his personal staff, who could have outnumbered even Sylvia's phonebook and who all seemed to have their own opinions about how he should go about his business… But Wilf felt strangely at ease in his new position. Sometimes, it even felt as though he had been there before. He had only gotten lost in the government building once, when on his first morning, he had found himself wandering into the Defence Secretary's office – most odd.

Settling himself into a heavy leather armchair behind his new desk, Wilf looked around the room, not for the first time wondering if this was all just a particularly vivid dream. Any moment now, he could wake up, in his own bed, to the sounds of clinking dishes downstairs in the kitchen from Donna and Sylvia making their breakfast, Shaun's car starting outside as he left for work. He would chuckle to himself later; perhaps recount it to his family over tea:

"_I dreamed I was the Prime Minister last night…"_

They would laugh, Donna would no doubt express her thoughts on the idea, Shaun would offer a cynical comment about the current government and joke that Wilf could do a better job than them any day.

Maybe he could.

Maybe that was why he was here.

He hauled himself to his feet, crossed the room again and locked the door. Then he returned to his desk and started up the new computer that had been brought in just that morning at his request. It was a top-of-the-range model, powerful as you like…and most importantly, with security that even the military would be pushed to crack. Nothing was getting in or out of this machine…not yet, anyway.

There was work to be done.

Wilf's fingers began to tap on the keyboard. The screen darkened to black, and white text began to appear. His fingers moved faster and faster, flying across the keys almost quicker than the eye could follow. An intricate, complex code that felt like it was pouring out of him, down through his arms and through the plastic into the silicon heart of the computer, where it would be locked away, stored out of sight until…

The screen flickered, white letters briefly shimmering and blurring. Wilf's eyes, following the text as it appeared, showed no sign that anything had changed. Again, the screen flickered, and an image appeared – a woman, formally dressed in white, mouth set in a grim line with grave concern. Still, Wilf's eyes ran rhythmically from side to side along lines of unseen code while his fingertips continued their unwavering dance across the keys. The woman gazed at him, willing, but her composure became increasingly desperate and eventually deeply troubled as Wilf's vision passed straight through her. She glanced over his shoulder anxiously and her eyes lingered there for a moment before, resigned, she turned her head away and the image faded from view, replaced by the monochromatic code that filled the screen as if it had never been interrupted, and grew unrelentingly by the second.

There was a knocking at the door, and Wilf snapped abruptly out of his trance. He couldn't be certain how much time had passed – looking back to when he had sat down at the computer, the past few hours at least seemed a bit of a blur.

"Coming," he called, flicking off the screen of the computer and scrambling past his desk to unlock the door, knocking the pen-holder off the desk. There was another impatient knock, and he swung open the door to reveal three grim faces standing in the corridor. A wiry woman with hair like steel wool stepped forwards and held up a badge.

"Mr. Mott?" she said sternly. "Detective Chief Inspector with the London Metropolitan Police. May we come in for a moment?" Without waiting for an answer, the three walked briskly past Wilf and into the office, and the last, a young man in constables' uniform, closed the door behind them.

"Just let me do the talking," a woman with a briefcase muttered in Wilf's ear as she passed him.

"B-but…but…I don't need a _lawyer_," Wilf stammered, baffled.

"We're investigating the nuclear blast at the Naismith mansion last Christmas," the Inspector began, and Wilf's stomach lurched. How could he say anything without breaking his promise to the Doctor?

"Naismith's technicians who were present before the blast are now claiming they saw _you_ there, Mr. Mott. In the sealed booth with the nuclear reactor," the Inspector continued, and a wave of relief washed over Wilf as something occurred to him.

"I read in the paper – they said your witnesses said Harold Saxon was there…"

"Your point, Mr. Mott?"

"Well who else was there, then? Harriet Jones?" The young constable cleared his throat and exchanged glances with the lawyer.

"They also say you were with another man," said the Inspector. "Do you have any idea who that could have been?"

"Winston Churchill?" Wilf shrugged.

"I hope you're not-"

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Mott," the lawyer interrupted. "Inspector, I suggest you check the credibility of your witnesses before taking up any more of the Prime Minister's valuable time."

"Their stories were consistent – we had to follow it up. I hope you understand."

"They all say they saw the same thing? Well, maybe you should ask them what exactly they were experimenting with." The lawyer opened the door and held it open, standing back and looking meaningfully at the Inspector and constable, who departed without another word.

"Here's my card if you need me," said the lawyer to Wilf, slipping a piece of laminated cardboard under the corner of the computer keyboard on the desk. "Oops – sorry," she added as her elbow bumped the pen-holder off the desk. "Here – let me-"

"No – it's O.K., I've got it," said Wilf, bending to pick up the scattered pens.

"Have a nice day then, sir," the lawyer said, and left the office. Wilf eased himself back into the chair and turned on the screen. Back to work – oh no, wait – there was that blasted pen-holder on the floor. Funny – he could have sworn…

...

Illuminated in the glare of a bedside lamp, the black and white images on the page reflected off the student's glasses. He traced his finger over one, straining to focus as his vision blurred with fatigue and an artery pulsed at the corner of one eye. Lateral view of the thorax…thirteen ribs…count back to find the puncta maxima…thirteen, twelve, eleven…no – that was the diaphragm. His eyelids felt like lead, his whole head like cast iron, slipping down onto the cool page of the textbook… No! He _had_ to study. With numb arms, he pushed himself up and rubbed his eyes until they were bloodshot. Maybe ten minutes break wouldn't hurt. He reached into his bookbag by the side of the bed and rummaged until he pulled out the day's newspaper, dog-eared and crumpled from being crushed under a heavy textbook. A headline caught his eye as he smoothed it out across the desk:

"DEVASTATING COMPUTER VIRUS TAKES OUT AMERICA'S INFRASTRUCTURE! President Appeals To Britain For Aid"

The student read on, the words sinking in slowly through his fog of weariness. A computer virus had infiltrated nearly every computer in the United States and activated itself without warning and with catastrophic consequences. Military computers, computers in power stations, TV networks and radio stations, traffic lights and phone networks had all shut off. The United States of America had ground to a halt within minutes. The only link in and out of the most powerful civilization on the planet was now a single private phone line in the White House, isolated from the rest of the country's ruined electronic infrastructure and linked to the office of the British Prime Minister. And with even hospitals out of action and the entire country thrown into panic, the President had made a desperate request to Downing Street…

His eyes felt like they had been popped out of their sockets and wrapped in sandpaper, and the newspaper crinkled against the side of his face as he lifted his head. Weak light was filtering through the closed curtains – it must be late in the morning already, he realized with a start, peeling the newspaper off his cheek. The headline caught his peripheral vision again briefly – it hardly seemed real to think about – the whole of the United States of America in a state of national emergency, and here he was, still sitting in his tiny room on a university campus, curtains drawn and door locked, preparing to sit his first exam in two days. Suddenly, an uneasy and almost nauseating feeling of detachment crept through him. He hadn't left the room for days now, unable to bear the constant tugging at his attention that he still hadn't been able to figure out. It was everyone now – everyone he passed in the street, everyone he saw on the TV, even outside the country now. Outside, the world continued at its own pace, but the only sign of it from where he paced alone in his room was the occasional sound of people passing in the corridor and now the events in the newspaper that had been shoved roughly under his door the previous morning.

And even that seemed somehow unreal.

He stretched himself, slowly leaning his head back to release the tension in his stiff neck, and drew a deep breath. Just hold on, he told himself. You'll be fine, once the exams are over. Everything's fine.

There were some things you could always count on, he reminded himself. Some things are always logical; some things never changed. Just hold on to that…

He picked up his heavy anatomy textbook, slammed it shut. He hefted it in one hand, turned, held it up by the spine and released his grip.

His whole body broke out in a cold sweat and his blood roared in his ears. Covering his face with his hands, he sat down heavily on the bed and lay back, curling himself into a ball, trying to calm his pounding heart.

The textbook hung in midair, frozen in space.


	20. Chapter 20

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

"'Dimensional instability' – is that anything to worry about?" Jack asked, tapping at a blinking red light on the TARDIS control panel. The Doctor hurried around, a puzzled frown crossing his face.

"That came on when we landed," he muttered. He reached out to tap it, but as he did so, it went out.

"Oh well – can't be that important," Jack shrugged. The Doctor narrowed his eyes thoughtfully – dimensional instability? It didn't really give a whole lot of information – not when there were a near-infinite number of dimensions that could be perceived as unstable from inside the TARDIS. He watched the screens carefully as the TARDIS whirled through the time vortex.

They had reached the familiar blue police box, stowed in a dusty alcove of a storage tunnel, just in time to hear the rubble at the entrance crumbling and a swarm of outraged Formicidae pouring through – and Jack had expressed no small amount of satisfaction as the TARDIS dissolved into the air under their spiked feet. The Master had collapsed the moment the door had slammed behind them, and the Doctor had to admit, he nearly did the same from sheer relief. With the Master in the medical bay of the TARDIS, the Doctor finally allowed himself to relax and Jack explained how he had been approached by two Formicidae scouts – it seemed that on hearing 'Time Lord', someone had pointed them to the only time traveler they knew and Jack had guessed what had happened.

Now, watching the Doctor set the destination for a populated blue moon Jack had mentioned he had always wanted to visit, he squirmed uncomfortably and the Doctor glanced up.

"There's…ah…there's something I didn't tell you, Doctor." The Doctor waited. "I think we'd better sit down somewhere."

"What is it?" said the Doctor quietly, arms folded on the table and eyes fixed on Jack. The troubled expression on his face gave some deep down part of him an icy prickle of premonition, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"It's Martha Jones. And Mickey Smith. They're…well, they…I hate to have to tell you this, but-"

The Doctor slammed his fist down on the table suddenly, cutting him off, and buried his face in his hands.

"I should have been there!" he said angrily, his voice cracking. Martha…Martha, one of the most unbelievably courageous, determined humans he had known to date. Martha, who had saved the world several times over, single-handedly standing up to even the Master once…and Mickey, who had once saved the universe in a big yellow truck… He felt cold all over, frozen with a sense of loss he had felt very few times in his long life. And at the same time, he burned with rage.

"I should have been there!" he repeated, standing and brushing a stack of books off the table with a furious sweep of his arm. Jack, himself almost quailing at the fire in the Doctor's dark eyes, said nothing.

"How did it happen?" the Doctor demanded.

"A Sontaran. Just one, got stuck on Earth somehow, decided to take on UNIT. Doctor, there was nothing you could've done."

"I promised myself…I promised _her_…"

"Hey – even you can only save one person at a time sometimes." The Doctor sat down heavily and raised his eyes heavenward with a bitter laugh.

"Oh yes, and look how well that's turned out." He paused, and was unable to keep a tremor from his voice as he added, "I'm going to lose everyone."

"C'mon, don't say that." Watching the Doctor's gaze resting somewhere in the distance, Jack wondered what the Time Lord could see that he couldn't. Hadn't he once said that he could see the whole of time and space and all possible futures – Jack couldn't begin to comprehend. Was he seeing that now? A different time, a different past where Martha and Mickey had been saved, perhaps? Or was he scanning the potential futures where he no longer had to be alone, with the other of the last two living Time Lords having pulled through? Was that future even possible now? The Master was in a bad way – he didn't have long now before his own energy would burn him up from the inside out, and how would the Doctor take it? He would blame himself, of course. He took so much on himself.

Part of Jack couldn't wait to be off the TARDIS and drifting around the universe wherever the wind decided to blow him. Away from the whole helpless situation – this wasn't his responsibility, wasn't his problem to deal with. But another side – he supposed it was his conscience, the same part that had sent him outrunning a platoon of Judoon in one of their stolen ships to go storming into a Formicidae nest – had been growing stronger and stronger ever since he first encountered the Doctor.

"Look, if you like, I can stick around for a while," Jack offered. "Besides, looks like you need someone to keep an eye on you lately," he grinned in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Jack, you can't do that," said the Doctor, but his tone was brighter now. "Who'd want to stick around with a misery like me when I can drop you off anywhere in time and space?"

"It's your call, Doctor. Just remember how many people across the universe would do anything for you. You haven't lost everyone. Not by a long shot."

...

As the door to the examination room was pushed open from the inside and a grey-haired, balding examiner stepped back to allow the flood of students past, one near the back – a long-haired, gangly young man – swayed on his feet and his eyes slid out of focus for a moment. The student felt sick to his stomach, and as he saw the interior of the room for the first time, sweeping his eyes across the rows of desks with their blank papers, a cloud seemed to pass across his vision and he felt he would pass out with nerves. He gripped a pen so hard the plastic nearly cracked between his fingers and kept his head down as he made a beeline for the back row. His foot caught on the top step and he nearly fell into his seat; his pens scattered on the floor, but his hands were trembling so hard he could barely control his fingers to pick them up. Finally, seated and with his pens in as orderly a row as he could force them into with his whole body shaking like a leaf, he risked a glance around the room. There were empty seats dotted around, and an examiner was now moving around the room checking ID cards and ticking names off on a register. A number of the student's classmates were absent – mostly international students, he observed.

The British government had taken control of America and were organizing the chaos that their communication systems had become into some semblance of functional order, and experts had been flown out in completely manually-controlled planes to attempt to restore the stricken country's electronics. But after America had come France, Germany, Japan, Australia, China…almost every developed country now had succumbed to the mysterious virus that completely disabled every electronic system it infiltrated. And every one had had no option but to temporarily hand over power to Britain or descend into total anarchy and pandemonium.

It all seemed so far away to the student, who had almost given up trying to take anything for granted any more. From the moment his heavy textbook had refused to obey the laws of gravity, it seemed like anything that should have been just _wasn't_. He had opened his fridge repeatedly and eaten the same slice of fruit-cake about four times, each time expecting it to be gone and finding it there on the plate, untouched – after the fourth time, he had opened the door just a crack and peered in, almost laughing at himself, at the thought of what he must look like, and the fridge was bare. That very morning, he had opened his cupboard to find a clean t-shirt and found it empty; he had slammed the door shut and opened it again, and there were his clothes. Most unnerving of all, when he drew his curtains back before leaving the room, the whitewashed concrete wall of the next building that usually blocked his view of the campus was gone – it was as if the building had never been there, and his room looked out across the patch of orange brick buildings, ancient green trees and grey roads criss-crossing yellowing fields.

A thought hung temptingly at the corner of the student's mind, and he had reached out to it, uncertainly, hopefully, but drawn back, afraid of what it might mean – the thought that there was a pattern to it all. If he accepted that, it too might inexplicably vanish, cease to be true, and the student knew his grip on the world would slip.

An examiner was writing up times on the whiteboard at the front of the room now, and another was rattling off the standard rules of exams in a weary monotone. The student had to close his eyes for a minute as nausea washed over him. Just the first of his exams, and he could barely focus enough to write his name on the admission slip – all around, even the breathing of the other students seemed to roar in his ears, occasionally there would be a sniff or cough that would hit him like a clip round the ear, papers rustling as they counted their pages shattered the few fragments of knowledge he had managed to absorb into useless splinters of scattered words and numbers.

This whole semester would have been for nothing, he realized – he wasn't even sure if he could make it through sitting in the room for the whole three hours, let alone pass. If he failed all four papers, he would be expelled from his course. If he failed badly enough, he wouldn't even be allowed to reapply the next year. And he was going to fail, he knew that without a doubt. Coming into the room, the butterflies in his stomach had felt more like a flock of panicked parrots; now he felt empty and cold, and his head felt like the piece of paper on the desk in front of him – blank whiteness, staring, accusing. The exam had begun now – he hadn't even noticed – and he turned the paper over with numb despair and acceptance: he was going to fail, he would probably not even be able to dredge up enough of his memory to answer a single question.

The instant his eyes landed on the text, the haze in his peripheral vision cleared. The words became crystal sharp, and the cacophony of sound assaulting his senses vanished as if someone had hit a mute button. Words and images flooded through his mind, which suddenly felt as clear as that strange, unfamiliar view outside his bedroom window.

With a thrill of exhilaration running through him, he began to write.

...

The cleaner wiped the sweat from her brow with one hand as she straightened the papers in the Prime Minister's in-tray. Outside the window, the summer sun beat down, heating the little office like a greenhouse. Maybe that was why the Minister always had his curtains closed, she realized, and she began to regret drawing them back. She glanced at the clock – he would be back any moment, and she would have to make herself scarce. He was a busy man, now more than ever, and her job description was clear: to be neither seen nor heard by the overworked, overpaid politicians.

Just for good measure, she ran her polishing cloth one last time across the gleaming desk, accidentally nudging the computer mouse with her wrist. The smooth screen awoke from stand-by, rows of white text coming into view covering the black background, and the cleaner moved closer, curious. It appeared to be some kind of intricate code – nothing she could decipher, but nothing like she had ever seen on the computer screens of the other politicians, she knew that much. She hung the cloth over the edge of her trolley and leaned closer.

There was a faint squeak as the doorhandle turned – the cleaner held her breath and raised her face from the screen, heart pounding as she met the gaze of Wilfred Mott, who stood at the door, face unreadable. Slowly, uncertainly, he pushed the door closed behind him and the click it made as it shut was like a whip-crack in the totally soundless office. It occurred to the cleaner that the whole room was completely soundproofed – if she called out, not even the people in the room next door would hear her. Rationally, she couldn't think why she might call out, but something about the way Wilfred Mott was now looking at her made her decidedly uneasy. His eyes moved, although his whole body had become like a statue – they scanned the room, carefully and deliberately, and the cleaner's eyes followed his, eventually both coming to rest on a wrought iron candlestick on a mantelpiece above the ornamental fireplace.

The cleaner could feel her whole body breaking out in a cold sweat as their attention lingered on the candlestick, the cleaner analyzing its weight and distance from where she stood, with a horrible feeling that the Minister was doing the same. Then his eyes moved again – so slowly that the cleaner could have counted the seconds before they once again made eye contact across the stifling room. An array of indecipherable expressions seemed to be passing across his face, and while she didn't dare move a muscle, her whole mind was pleading, her eyes fixed imploringly onto his.

And then, like a ray of light penetrating broiling slate clouds during a storm, the cleaner felt as if she were looking at a different man – a gentle, world-weary old man with the steely resolve of a soldier.

"You…should…go…" His words sounded choked, as if he was fighting to force them from the back of his throat. The cleaner swallowed hard, taking her hands off the desk and moving hesitantly towards her trolley.

"_Quickly_!" he snapped suddenly. The stony, calculating mask passed across his face again and he took a step towards the mantelpiece. Abandoning the trolley, the cleaner threw herself towards the door, wrenching it open and stumbling down the corridor on legs that felt like they had turned to jelly. Behind her, she heard the door slam, and a splintering crunch like a heavy object hitting wood with a violent swing.


	21. Chapter 21

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

The Master barely had the energy to move from where he sat, back to the wall and huddled, shivering and burning from within. The drums seemed to be growing louder with every breath he managed to force into his lungs – or was it just that he could no longer find the energy to force the relentless beat to the back of his mind? Constantly, the gnawing hunger tore at him – he ate and ate, but no matter how much he consumed, the food could no longer sustain him and the energy simply dissipated itself through his translucent flesh.

The Doctor felt totally powerless – no, worse – useless. He would have done anything, _everything_, to save the Master, but he could do nothing, only help his former enemy to cling on to life for as long as possible.

"There's always the Chameleon Arch," he suggested from where he sat a few metres from the Master in the dim light of the medical bay.

"Oh, come _on_!" The Master's voice was a barely audible whisper. "I'd rather die a Time Lord than spend another day as one of those pathetic humans."

"You don't know them. I mean, really _know_ them."

"I don't know how you get so attached to them." For a brief second, the Doctor broke eye contact, and the Master raised his eyebrows. "Ohh…something's happened, hasn't it? Let me guess – one of your pets? Yes…you lost another one, didn't you?"

"That's enough!" the Doctor snapped fiercely, and the two fell silent for a long while before the Master spoke again.

"It's always the women, eh?"

"What do you mean?"

"It was her fault again. Lucy – my 'faithful' Lucy – she sabotaged my resurrection."

"How?"

"She had a potion…said her family's connections had calculated the 'opposite' of the Potions of Life." His eyes were yellow orbs in his skull, but the Doctor detected in the tone of his faint voice that he would have been rolling them in disdain.

"Well it can't have been the opposite, or you wouldn't be here at all."

"I know _that_," the Master snorted. "Just some sort of toxin, it must have been. No – what I'm curious about, Doctor, is this: if you'd got there first, if the explosion at the prison hadn't been a fixed point…would you have stopped them bringing me back?"

The Doctor couldn't answer, not even to himself. He let the question hang in the air, pushing it away as his mind wandered, and eventually said

"'Dimensional instability', the TARDIS keeps trying to tell me. Little red light. Don't like little red lights – they're never good." To his surprise, the Master lifted his head with a start. His pale, gaunt face was visible for a moment and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes that made the Doctor involuntarily draw back.

"What? What is it?" he demanded. The Master closed his eyes and inhaled long and deep, as if savouring the air, and again the Doctor caught a glimpse of his face which wore a satisfied smile.

"You're not going to like it," he replied happily, his voice growing stronger by the minute. "You really ought to watch your back more, you know that?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Still can't see the obvious, can you?" the Master teased, and then had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out in pain as the Doctor gripped his shoulders urgently.

"What have you done?"

"No – what have _you_ done?" said the Master through gritted teeth. The Doctor met his eyes and, frustrated, suddenly pulled him to his feet, pinning him back against the wall by the shoulders before he collapsed. He laughed, and was suddenly behind the Doctor, standing unsupported in front of the large window that looked into the containment room of the medical bay. The containment room was darkened, the window an opaque rectangle; the Master raised his eyes to the ceiling and the lights flared, as if the switch had been flicked. In that instant, the window reflected the scene in the room – the Doctor, who had found himself with his hands pressed against the wall where moments ago the Master had stood; and the Master watching him, almost fidgeting with restless anticipation.

"It's been there long enough – you must have done something by now!"

The Doctor caught sight of his own face gazing back at him in the window, and his stunned expression slowly darkened to one of horror at the image that now became so terrifyingly clear – the massive, scarab-like insect that clung to his back.

"Oh look, Doctor – I think you might have picked up a bug!" said the Master, and he laughed again, the old manic excitement back in his voice. Frozen with shock, the Doctor could only stare, and the Master ran his fingers through his hair, tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

Silence.

An ecstatic giggle half-escaped his lips, and all of a sudden, in wild exultation, his whole body was fizzing with sparks of blue energy as he shrieked to the crackling air,

"IT'S GONE!"

Again, his face became visible, and the Doctor shuddered at the emptiness he saw behind the wide eyes lit with an insane fire.

"The drums…the noise, the _constant_ noise…at last, it's gone!" He sounded almost hysterical now.

"But…_why_?"

"Because, Doctor," the Master replied breathlessly, "because _that_ is my reality!" The Doctor had rarely felt this utterly overwhelmed, but every instinct he possessed was screaming at him, telling him that something was very, very wrong. His hands dropped to his sides and he slowly crossed the room to stand facing the window and his reflection which showed his face taut with anxiety. He scrutinized the image carefully, studying the figure of the Time Beetle that he carried. There was something different about this one – it wasn't quite like the one Donna had encountered. For one thing, it was shorter and squatter – a gravid female.

"These ones are feral," said the Master, watching the Doctor with an infuriating air of patience like a teacher trying to communicate a basic concept to a child. "Much more dangerous."

"It didn't bring me back in time," the Doctor muttered. "I'd know if it had…"

"Of course not – you're a Time Lord, idiot!" said the Master scornfully. "No – all it could do would be to hijack a decision you made after you picked it up and cause a split in your timeline, then feed off the potential energy from the parallel dimension it created."

"'Dimensional instability'…" the Doctor realized aloud, although that was only one part of the puzzle. And then his eyes widened as something occurred to him. "'These ones' – you mean there are more of them?"

"Ooh, you _are_ on to it!" the Master grinned, and without warning, the room was plunged into blackness. The Doctor heard the Master's footsteps heading for the door, could see the tendrils of glimmering energy that ran across his body, illuminating him in the darkness. Heart pounding, he raced after him down the corridor, but the Master seemed to have regained that unnatural agility he had displayed on Earth, and with one gravity-defying leap, he was gone. By the time the Doctor reached the console room, the TARDIS was in flight and the Master was standing triumphantly behind the controls. He hurtled up the steps to the deck, reached the top step…and found himself starting from the bottom again, and again, and again, like a looping video clip.

"Come on, then! Aren't you going to try and stop me?" the Master taunted, leaning casually back against the railing a few feet from the Doctor, hands in his pockets. Carried perpetually forwards by his momentum, but repeatedly flung back to after the initial movement had started, the Doctor was unable to control his mad dash up the stairs and could only continue, over and over.

"How are you doing this?" he gasped. The Master sauntered back to the control panel and idly adjusted a dial before answering.

"Think of a fractal. A complicated one, if you like – doesn't look like you're moving anywhere any time soon."

"Where are we going?"

"Now, you've got that passenger there, causing a branch in your timeline and feeding off the energy. What if the decision you made that it hijacked was so big, so significant, that it created enough energy for the Time Beetle to continue its life cycle, sending its offspring in both branches to find another host. And then that host made a decision – another branch – and that Beetle's offspring spread and spread, and the timelines branched and branched. That's your fractal – that's a lot of parallel dimensions. There's only so many that reality can sustain, you know. Reality, Doctor – _reality_ is disintegrating."

"But…how are you…controlling it?"

"Don't you think," said the Master, turning his head away, his voice now bitter and, the Doctor thought, tinged with sadness, "that after a lifetime of being told I was mad, I've had a good long time to think about what exactly _reality_ is?" The recurring loop around the Doctor broke suddenly and, unprepared, he stumbled and fell hard on the deck.

"You don't know what you're doing," he protested. "This is dangerous – we should-"

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Doctor," the Master whispered, kneeling down to face the Doctor. "Because this really _is_ my kind of world. And you know what?" He stood up and headed for the door. "There's a whole planet out there that's going to start falling apart at the seams very soon! And a whole population of primitive creatures that will need someone to restore a bit of order, make things how they expect them to be, so they can carry on with their mundane, _realistic_ lives. They're going to need a Master!"


	22. Chapter 22

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

Woo! I got my first ever C2 add - thanks to all your reviews, this fic has now been added to the "Your Favourite Doctor Who Fics!" archive! Thanks, everyone! :)

* * *

There must have been tens of thousands of them – every single person strolling down the busy London street, emerging from offices blinking in the late summer sun, even the children on a noisy school bus that roared past…every single one carried their black insect parasite obliviously on their backs. It seemed almost surreal to watch them going about their lives, so habitually and carefree, with the powerful thorny mandibles of the feral Time Beetles poised at the backs of their necks, awaiting the opportunity to take that fraction of a second a decision would be made and cleave their host's timeline around them.

Even the Master seemed astounded at the scale of the infestation, and for several minutes the two Time Lords remained at the entrance to the narrow alleyway the TARDIS had landed in, their eyes following the humans who hurried past without giving them a second glance.

"This is bad," the Doctor muttered. "This is out of control. We need to find out when it split my timeline and stop this, right now." The Master's hands were in his pockets and he had his hood pulled down low over his face to conceal his translucent flesh. At the sound of the Doctor's voice, he swung around angrily and the Doctor couldn't help but notice a sense of panicked urgency in his voice.

"I won't let you!" he hissed, glancing around to check they hadn't attracted any unwanted attention. "Don't you see? The decision you made, that started this…there's not many things anyone could do to give that Time Beetle enough energy to feed off to begin a new life cycle. It would have to be _so_ big – say, maybe, pulling someone out of a Time Lock." Whatever the Doctor intended to say, it caught in his throat, and the two stood eye to eye while the Doctor's memory flashed back to that moment last Boxing Day – it seemed like an age ago, even to him. Lying there on the cold tiles, near-blinded by the glare of the Time Lock, seconds after being braced for his own death…and that moment, that vital moment, when he had found somewhere in himself, seemingly from nowhere, a final burst of strength to throw himself forward and drag the Master back from Rassilon and out of the Time Lock. He had survived…

…they had _both_ survived…

The Doctor's end was long overdue by now.

"I think," he choked, "in the parallel dimension, my other 'branch'…I died."

"Ah, but of course," the Master murmured. "The artron energy given off in the regeneration process would kill the Beetle. That's why it took twice as long as it should have done – your alternate one didn't survive."

"This was your backup plan. The one that you thought hadn't worked."

"I don't know why you're so surprised, Doctor. I thought you said you knew me." His face became solid again just long enough for the Doctor to see him wink, before he stepped out into the stream of pedestrians and began to run. Dashing after him, the Doctor's conscience was like lead in the pit of his stomach as Wilf and Jack's faces passed before his mind's eye, both warning him, the voices of reason that had suspected from the very beginning that the Master was not to be trusted, was simply biding his time until the chance came. And although he knew he should have expected it, a sense of betrayal tormented his every thought.

A shopping trolley rolled into his path and he swerved to avoid it, upturning a stack of newspapers which spilled across the pavement.

"Really sorry, kind of busy," he apologized hastily, scrambling to his feet and scanning the crowd for the black-clad figure of the Master. Something caught his eye on the front page of a newspaper as he pushed it into the hands of the vendor, and he snatched it back to gape in disbelief at what stared up at him from the page.

"PRIME MINISTER RESTORES ORDER IN STRICKEN HONG KONG," the headline proclaimed above a photograph of a face that was sickeningly familiar to the Doctor.

"Hey – is this the Prime Minister?" he asked a passer-by, grabbing his arm. The person, a student with a strangely frightened air about him and red-rimmed eyes behind large metal-framed glasses jerked his arm back with a cry.

"I…I don't know, I don't know," he stammered, shaking his head. He turned to hurry away, and then noticed the Doctor staring curiously over his shoulder and panic overtook him.

"I've got one, don't I?" he said shrilly, turning pale and breaking out into a cold sweat as his worst fears of the past few months came crashing down on him. He buried his head in his hands. "No, no, no…no, I can't have one…not now…"

"Shh, shh, it's O.K., you don't have one," the Doctor reassured him, and paused. "You can see them?"

"Everywhere…" the student mumbled miserably. "You've…you've got to help me…and there's…" His eyes moved to the front page of the newspaper, and the Doctor's followed. The man in the photograph was now gone, replaced with a ghostly white silhouette. For a few lingering seconds, every person on the bustling street became a similar shapeless silhouette, and then it was gone and the Doctor turned an amazed but pitying gaze onto the student.

"I'm the Doctor," he said quietly and calmly. "Everything's going to be all right, but you need to come with me, right now."

"W-where are you taking me?"

"The government buildings," the Doctor replied grimly.

"B-but that's…that's miles away."

"Are you sure?"

"We're…we're not even on Main Street," said the student uncertainly, turning his head this way and that. He spotted a road sign nearby and nodded. "Yes, we're definitely nowhere near…oh!"

They were now standing before an immense, black gate, behind which, a red-brick building was surrounded by patrolling security guards and swiveling cameras on steel poles. The student felt his knees giving way, and he gripped the iron bars of the gate until his nails drew blood from his palms.

"Are you all right?" he heard the Doctor asking. "No – on the other hand, don't think about that. I have to see the Prime Minister."

"You'll never get in there," the student croaked. "Look at all the…" As he watched, the sweeping lawns and eagle-eyed security guards were replaced with a scene that the student recognized – a deserted carpark, just how he remembered from one around the corner from his home, littered with rusting cans and tufts of grass and weeds determinedly forcing their way up through cracks in the neglected tarmac. It was all too much, and the student felt like retching, blacking out, or maybe just running from it all, as fast and as far away as he could get.

"The Prime Minister – he was the first, wasn't he?" came the Doctor's voice. The student hesitated before nodding.

"Probably… But…I saw…I saw a lady first, in the street, in…in April. She was a journalist, the news said."

"Probably interviewed him. Come on." He began jogging across the carpark towards the government building, and while it was the last thing the student felt like doing, he followed. The Doctor was his last hope for the one thing he was increasingly desperate for – an explanation. For anything.

The doors vanished as they reached them, leaving a gaping hole through which they walked into a lushly furnished foyer where a secretary sat behind a desk. Although he seemed oblivious to the disappearance of the doors, he looked up in irritation as the Doctor, followed by the student, came charging in, trainers clapping loudly against the polished wooden floor.

"Where's the Prime Minister?" the Doctor demanded.

"One moment, please," said the secretary into a speakerphone on the desk. "Who are you, then?"

"I'm the Doctor," the Doctor replied, fishing out a wallet from his coat pocket and flashing something in front of the secretary, who scrutinized it closely while his expression became disapproving.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to do better than a blank bit of paper, sir," he tutted, reaching for a button on the speakerphone. "Security to the-"

"So we can't go in," the student put in suddenly in a small voice. It wasn't a question.

"Please, go right in, sirs," the speakerphone buzzed in almost deafening metallic tones, and the secretary was gone. The student slumped to the ground, rocking backwards and forwards.

"I've killed him…no, no – I don't want to kill anyone…" he moaned into his hands, staring dully at the empty seat behind the desk. The Doctor knelt in front of him and tried to catch his eye, but it was virtually impossible to make eye contact with the distraught young man.

"Look at me," he commanded. "Look at me – it's O.K. Come on. It's all O.K."

"I killed someone…"

"No you didn't," the Doctor said confidently. "He's not dead. He's just not here at this particular time any more. Listen to me. You have to get out of here now."

"You're using me."

"I'm sorry, really – I am _so_ sorry…"

"You're _using me_!" the student sobbed. The Doctor reached out to touch his arm and found himself flung back across the room against a row of potted miniature trees.

"Let me explain!" he insisted. "I can tell you what's going on." The student's tear-streaked face became hopeful and the Doctor crept cautiously back over.

"It'll all be over soon," he said gently. "I'll figure out what to do, and then everything will be all right again. By tomorrow, none of this will ever have happened. What's your name?"

"Theta Sigma," the student sniffed. A strange expression passed over the Doctor's face, which the student barely noticed, although he was prepared for the question that usually followed, and added, "My great-grandmother named me before she died."

_This is a parallel dimension_, the Doctor had to remind himself sternly. _Reality is disintegrating. That's all there is to it. That's all_.

"You're a student, aren't you? What are you studying?"

"Biochemistry."

"Oh, that's brilliant," the Doctor exclaimed, and Theta Sigma found himself smiling in spite of himself, caught by the Doctor's infectious encouragement. "You stick with it, won't you? Now look." His voice grew more serious. "You have to get away from here. There's someone very dangerous coming, and I don't want you mixed up in this. I don't want you getting hurt." Theta Sigma's skin grew cold with fear, and he stood up shakily.

"Trust me," said the Doctor. "Remember – by tomorrow, none of-"

"Oh, I should have known!" A voice from the door, cutting through the stillness of the foyer, startled both of them, and the Doctor's stomach lurched with dread. He could sense the Master's presence even before he turned to face him, and the Master laughed scornfully.

"You just couldn't resist getting a human involved, could you?" He stepped into the foyer and looked the terrified Theta Sigma up and down. "Although I can't see what even you saw in this one, Doctor! He's just a kid, a nobody. Even his future's not important."

An accusing glare echoed in the Doctor's memory, a furious woman who stood in the snow and met his eyes with words like knives.

"_Who decides they're not important? You?"_

She was so strong, and yet through it all had showed something the Doctor was not accustomed to seeing from humans – fear. Of him.

"_The Time Lord victorious is _wrong_!"_

"Oh, I was so wrong…" he breathed. "Can't you see it now, Master? All this – this is proof! That every single human being that walks on this planet is _so important_! Every single person has the power to create a whole parallel dimension around themselves, just with a single decision!"

"Yes, they were useful after all," said the Master with a shrug, reaching up to lower his hood. "But don't try and give this weak race credit for-" He had pulled back his hood, and Theta Sigma cried out in alarm at the sight of the Master's bones showing through his glassy skin. Instantly, his hood was shadowing his face again and two faceless humanoid silhouettes, unnaturally tall and with the distorted proportions of their limbs changing and flowing as they moved, stood either side of him, seizing his arms and restraining him. He nodded in realization and the silhouettes ceased to exist.

"Ah, very good…" he murmured. "But what if I…?" He turned his head upwards and jagged cracks ripped across the vaulted ceiling, sending tonnes of plaster and wooden beams crashing downwards – and then the ceiling was whole again, stretching unsupported above their heads as the walls caved inwards and a wave of bricks towered and crested above the Doctor and Theta Sigma. It became water moments before it broke across them, but the icy torrent never hit and they were as dry as if it had never existed. The polished wooden tiles beneath their feet fell away into a bottomless crevasse, but they did not fall – suspended in the air, the floor flickered in and out of view under them.

"Please, stop!" the Doctor urged the Master. "He doesn't know what's happening. You'll drive him mad!" The Master tilted his head to one side with a crazed grin and the sky above them parted in a cascade of blinding light to reveal a swirl of dark specks that grew closer with impossible speed – great steel insects, like monstrous, glittering locusts, speeding towards them. They too vanished, and the sky became a starless blanket of blackness.

Petrified, Theta Sigma was frozen on the spot as horror after unimaginable horror whirled around him like a living nightmare – except that he was continually aware that every abhorrent detail was terribly real.

_I'm going to die…I'm going to die…_ his mind told him over and over, and he believed it every time, with every sliver of broken reality that the Master hurled at him. Briefly, the Doctor's voice sounded again, shouting his name, breaking through the numb shell that his thoughts were becoming. He felt lost inside his own head, but right at the very back of his consciousness, some part of him dared to think. It took in the room, the Master, the Doctor…and then brushed them away and remembered where he would be at this time on any other Friday afternoon. He saw, in the peripheral vision of his subconscious, a pebbled beach, jutting out into the English Channel, smelled the salt on the air, felt the crunch of the loose rocks beneath his feet, heard the panting of his dog as it trotted beside him. But that was many miles away now, and he hadn't walked on that beach since Christmas with his family, so many months ago. He was here now, in this room, the foyer of the government building, with the fabric of his world in tatters around him.

Here. Now.

This was reality.

The polished wood of the floor became fluid, reared up around him into monstrous shapes that opened their gaping maws to swallow him…and Theta Sigma vanished.

The Master blinked in surprise and the floor settled back to solid wood. An unearthly silence filled the foyer, which was now as stable and undamaged as when they had first entered.

"He just…"

"Because he's human," said the Doctor coldly. "Why couldn't anyone else see what you were doing?"

"I doubt the state of their sky and the foyer of their government building has even crossed one of their simple minds," the Master smirked. "Come on – let's go catch up with your old man." He headed through the door behind the desk with the Doctor close behind, still reeling, and the pair hurried through the narrow corridor, past closed doors of ministerial offices, feet barely making a sound on the thick, sumptuous carpet.

"What did you do to Wilf?" the Doctor asked.

"Who says I did anything to him?" the Master called back over his shoulder, striding ahead and turning to climb a flight of stairs.

"He got himself elected as Prime Minister."

"I guess you could say he's more a sort of steward, actually." The Doctor wasn't at all surprised at this. They were now heading down a corridor lined with portraits of various officials, and he quickened his pace to catch up to the Master.

"You've got to stop this," he pleaded. "It'll spread – the whole universe will be affected."

"Of course."

"But even you can't control all that!"

Another person was approaching, walking briskly down the corridor towards them. Dressed in a freshly pressed shirt and tie, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a packet of digestive biscuits in the other, the Transport Secretary was in a decidedly good mood as he strolled back to his office after an extended lunch break. All pleasant feelings evaporated, however, when he caught sight of the two people ahead of him in the corridor, who were most definitely not supposed to be there.

"Oi – what do you think you're doing here?" he accosted the first one he passed, whose head was lowered, face concealed beneath a black hood. "Who are you?" The shady character stopped and turned to him, raising his head and lowering his hood. A bare skull beneath transparent flesh leered back at him, and as the Master's escaping life-force receded for a moment, the Transport Secretary found himself looking into a face that every politician in the building had hoped never to set eyes on again.

"Boo," the Master whispered. The Transport Secretary emitted a strangled sort of squeak from the back of his throat and the colour drained from his face as he toppled backwards in a dead faint.


	23. Chapter 23

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

Startled, Wilf leapt up from his seat as the door to his office burst open and a man entered. Strangely, his eyes couldn't seem to focus on the man's face – he was speaking now, and although his voice rang a bell somewhere in Wilf's distant past, it now seemed utterly irrelevant, and he couldn't quite make out the words.

"Wilf!" the Doctor was saying. "Wilfred Mott! It's the Doctor. Look at me, Wilf." Through his daze, Wilf peered at the Doctor's face. He _wanted_ to know him…but why? What for? And then another person appeared behind the strange man – as reassuringly familiar as the backs of Wilf's own careworn hands.

"Master…" His lips moved and sound came out, but his voice felt somehow detached, and although he was transfixed by the intense hazel eyes of the newcomer, his attention kept returning to the first man who was shouting something…shouting at _him_.

"Snap out of it, Wilf. Come on – this isn't you."

"You have control of 46 countries outside the Commonwealth…" That was _his_ voice coming out of his mouth, and his limbs were now moving as if pulled by invisible strings. He stood up and stepped aside, and the Master took the seat with a nod of mock thanks. Still, that first man was there, snapping his fingers in front of Wilf's eyes.

"Come on Wilf – I know you're in there." He slammed his hand on the desk in front of the Master, who leaned back in the chair and raised his eyebrows.

"What does he mean, you have control of 46 countries?"

"Temper, Doctor," the Master chided. His voice was crystal clear in Wilf's head and ears, and he found his lips moving along with the Master's words.

_Doctor_… That name… But it wasn't a name…

_Doctor… Donna…_

"_She's still fighting for it, even now. The Doctor-Donna!"_

A foggy recollection, but the same voice now pleaded with him to remember, and in a rush of memory, his eyes were opened and he stared around the room in confusion.

"Doctor?" He turned his bewildered face to the Doctor – good old Doctor, he would explain everything. "What am I doing here?"

"Hey – no, look at me!" the Master snapped, rising to his feet, but Wilf recoiled from him, knocking against the computer on the desk. The monitor flickered to life, revealing a screen of complex code that Wilf's fingers remembered entering into the machine, bringing the past half a year flooding back to him.

"What have I done…?" he gasped.

"Wilf, it wasn't you," said the Doctor, expression taut with anxiety. "Do you hear me? Wilf?" Wilf's throat was locked, and he was almost sick as a single memory swam to the surface of his dazed mind – a woman, gazing at him almost paralyzed with fear, his palm cold as his hands gripped something heavy and metal…his trembling muscles remembered swinging the object…there had been a crunch…

"What have I done…?" A sharp pain was growing in his chest – he put a hand to his heart, struggling to catch his breath. "Doctor…forgive me…" The pain was growing, creeping across his right shoulder; his vision grew dark, a pair of arms were around his shoulders, there was the Doctor's face, the Doctor's voice, trying to tell him something, over and over…but all he could make out was the Master's icy voice.

"He's served his purpose now anyway."

And, going out like a dropped torch carelessly discarded by the hand that had held it, Wilfred Mott was gone.

Blinded by fury, the Doctor's fist smashed down on the computer keyboard, sending fragments of plastic scattering across the desk.

"_He was innocent_," he snarled. "He didn't deserve this!" He turned angrily on the Master, who took an involuntary step back, his face once again masked by his escaping energy. "_Why_? Why do people have to die? Why do you do this, time and time again?"

"Think about it, Doctor," the Master replied. "To control _reality_, across the whole universe. Starting right here. Have you ever even had a taste of that kind of power? You could join me – we could do it together – two Time Lords…as the Lords of Reality." The Doctor was aghast, disgusted, and could only shake his head.

"You don't have to do this."

"Ah, but this time, I do," said the Master softly, and he raised his hands in front of himself, turning them over, examining the bones through his skin. "Look at me. I'm still dying. But that's reality, isn't it?" He closed his eyes and clenched his fists with remembered pain, and the Doctor hardly dared to move. The silence hung between them, and the Doctor's mind raced. How did it work – how could the Master bend and twist reality itself so effortlessly?

"_You could join me…"_

Had it been a slip of the tongue? Even so, the Doctor couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope at the words. But in his mind's eye, he saw the sheer terror on the face of Theta Sigma as the Master tormented the fragile young human, laughing with sadistic pleasure. Instincts torn, he knew that no-one deserved what was happening around that young man.

"You'll never understand it," said the Master, breaking through the Doctor's thoughts. His voice was laced with an air of superiority. "This is my world now. And if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." A white light grew around the Doctor, starting at the corners of his vision and creeping inwards. Alarmed, he moved towards the Master, who watched with a satisfied smile, seeming to grow no closer with each increasingly panicked step the Doctor took. The light grew, almost obscuring the office now – the Doctor could just make out the figure of the Master as uncontrolled energy pulsed from his body, illuminating him. A familiar rushing, wheezing sound filled his ears – the TARDIS was materializing around him, but instead of the coral-arched console room, there was only the white light which now completely surrounded him and solidified into walls and a ceiling.

"Look familiar?" came the Master's voice from the burnt-out intercom above the door.

...

Across the world, white noise scratched at the ears of the humans of 46 countries as millions of screens flared to life. Televisions, cellphones, computers and iPhones that had sat silent and dead for well over a week now suddenly fizzed with electricity as power was restored and rushed through the electronic infrastructure of the disabled nations. Amazed, the people snatched up their gadgets and devices and flocked to monitors and screens. Cities blazed with colour as neon signs lit up and streetlights flickered on like a magnificent terrestrial fireworks display.

But the relief of the masses quickly turned to confusion as the technology refused to respond to their touch and the white noise grew in volume, blaring from every speaker. Warning sparks, white-hot, flew from sockets, and fingers that were about to pull plugs and switch off power drew back.

And the confusion became horror when an image resolved itself on the screens – a face, familiar to many, beaming benevolently but with cold, unforgiving menace behind the eyes. He sat at a desk, elbows resting on the dark, polished oak, hands clasped under his chin while he waited, almost as if he could see the reactions of the people who drew back from their screens and was savouring the panic that spread through the human population. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper but confident in the knowledge that it was being broadcast through billions of speakers across 46 countries and that every person who heard it was breathlessly hanging on his words in disbelief and fear.

"Peoples of the Earth, please attend carefully. Oh, I do _love_ saying that!"

The Master threw back his head and laughed with manic delight, and almost reminiscent of that Christmas morning so many months ago, his voice echoed across the Earth.


	24. Chapter 24

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

The air seemed to rumble as iron-grey waves crashed on the beach, rolling the ancient rocks back and forth with each surge, wearing them smooth as they tumbled across each other. A fresh sea breeze whipped the tips of the waves into foaming crests that hissed as they drew back across the fine gravel at the water's edge. The beach itself formed a high bank of round pebbles that shielded the road from the ferocity of storms that blew in during the winter. It stretched out into the sea, curving around slightly and joining a high outcropping of land to the coast.

Except that there was no road, and the beach that was only a probably a mile long, if that, stretched on further than the eye could see. Halfway up the slope of grey pebbles, Theta Sigma sat motionless, knees pulled up to his chest and staring out to sea through his long hair that blew across his face with each gust of wind. His thick glasses were misted over with salt that dried white from the spray of the sea, but every so often, with a blink of his distant eyes, they would be clear again.

He couldn't remember how long he had been here now. It might be days, it might be weeks…he might never have left in the first place. For all he could tell, it might even be only a matter of minutes since…no, he couldn't think about it. He had watched as the lights of the town on the mainland had been extinguished and then burst into life again; he had been able to make out from here the sparks and flames as streetlamps overloaded with electricity and burned out. That was when the town had faded from view, when he couldn't bear to imagine what could be happening in London, what he had left behind. He had heard the screech of brakes from the road as GPS units and mobile phones began to broadcast, and he had known at the time what the message was, but he refused to let it into his reality. That was when the road had gone.

A dog bounded up to him and deposited a stick at his feet, and then shook herself, showering him with icy droplets. He smiled and reached out with one hand to the dog, running his fingers through her thick, damp fur, and the dog, corners of her mouth turned up with pleasure, sat back and extended a paw towards him, then rolled over onto her side to have her chest rubbed, tail flopping damply against the pebbles. With his other hand, he picked up the stick, drew his arm back and flung it out into the choppy water. The dog leaped to her feet and bounded down the steep slope of the beach, tail high and tongue lolling out the corner of her mouth. She threw herself into the water without a moment's pause and plunged through the waves to paddle out to the floating stick. It was a pity there weren't any fish, he thought to himself, and the heaving water subsided, became as calm and flat as a steel mirror with grey-brown shapes moving and darting just below the surface. The dog went wild with excitement and, the stick forgotten, splashed up and down, goading the fish until they formed a defensive shoal which she chased up and down the shallows.

As Theta Sigma watched, the still water became dark and ripples of current began to appear on the surface and his eyes widened in surprise. He continued to survey the scene, but the current built up, swirling around in inky eddies. When the dog began to yelp in fright, feeling herself pulled beneath the surface, he jumped up, feeling his feet sliding on the loose scree which became a solid concrete step. But still the sea dragged at the struggling dog. Frantic, he began to run down the bank, eyes fixed ahead on the water. It could have been his panic, but the waterline seemed to be getting no closer. The dog's brown head vanished underwater for a moment, and a frenzied cry escaped his throat. The concrete step beneath his feet melted away and his feet slipped into loose stones.

Out of the corner of his eye, something moved and he jerked his head around, falling to his hands and knees. A figure stood, ten paces or so from him and slightly further up the bank. His head was hooded and turned away from Theta Sigma, facing out to sea where the dog paddled desperately against the rip and whined. The man raised one hand to lower his hood and stopped short as two vaguely humanoid shapes materialized either side of him and gripped his arms with elongated, indistinct fingers.

"Ah – remember me?" he said. Theta Sigma's throat felt bone-dry, and he couldn't have replied if he had wanted to. He was suddenly terribly aware of the silence that surrounded the two of them, the loneliness of the place, and he felt exposed – almost as if it were he whose skeleton was showing through his skin. Totally alone… Something pushed itself into the crook of his elbow – the furry muzzle of the dog, dripping wet and shivering. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling her become dry at his touch, hugging the comforting warmth of the furry body close to him.

"Did you think I wouldn't find you here?" the man continued. Theta Sigma buried his face in the velvety ears of the dog, eyes screwed tightly shut. His thought processes seemed to be paralysed with dread.

"Oh, you can do better than that!" the man sneered. "Look at you – your will to save your dog was even stronger than mine to kill it." Theta Sigma raised his head. The man stepped forward through the indistinct grasp of the ghostly silhouettes, dissolving them as if they were mist, and Theta Sigma flinched as he approached. He laughed scornfully, eyes glinting with pride at the fear he inspired.

"No wonder you ran away. So human…so _weak_! But do you know…" He crouched down just an arm's reach away from Theta Sigma, who clung to the reassuring form of the dog. "…you could be so much more! I'm offering you a chance – come with me."

"I…I don't want t-to be more…" Theta Sigma croaked, finally finding his voice. "I just…I just want…"

"For everything to be _normal_? Oh, no – we can't have that, can we? This whole planet is mine now. Soon, it'll be the rest of the universe. If everything was _normal_, how could I keep my subjects in line?" The hooded man chuckled, and then raised his eyebrows at the young student's dazed expression. "Ah – the Doctor didn't explain after all. He was just using you as his weapon against me." Theta Sigma shook his head hard.

"You…you want to use me too."

"You're too dangerous to have around. Especially since you've met the Doctor."

"You're going t-to…kill me?"

"You've already shown me I can't do that. This plan does have its limits, it seems. But you know more than anyone…" he lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper, "…that I can make life _unlivable_." Theta Sigma shivered. Uncertain of what he was supposed to say, he opted to fall silent again, painfully aware that any misinterpretation or muddling of words here could have much greater consequences than any situation he had found himself making a mess of before. The man sat down opposite him and the dog's ears drew back, the hackles rising on the back of her neck.

"I am the Master," he said.

"That's…your name?" Theta Sigma replied, almost glad to have something to say. "Or is…is that what you call yourself, now that-" He broke off.

"It's who I am," said the Master, and laughed. "Rather fitting now – at last!"

"I'm Theta Sigma Moreau." Even Theta Sigma couldn't have missed the Master's obvious surprise – more than the typical raised eyebrows at the unusual name, he fancied. Scrambling for something to say, he found himself blurting out "What do you want me for, anyway?" The Master was silent for a long time, scrutinizing Theta Sigma closely until he squirmed uncomfortably and fidgeted. Then he shrugged.

"You might be useful. Either way, I can't just have you wandering around unsupervised. Who knows what the Doctor has filled your head with?"

"He…he didn't tell me anything…"

"No, of course he didn't. He doesn't understand it himself. He never will, most likely. How could he?" the Master spat. Before Theta Sigma could wonder aloud what he meant, he rose to his feet, took a few steps away and glanced back over his shoulder at the student who remained kneeling on the stones, arms wrapped protectively around the dog.

"Come on then, 'Theta Sigma'." He spoke the name as though it was a bad taste in his mouth, and as Theta Sigma began to stand, he added, "Don't you have a nickname or something?"

"Th-they called me…they called me 'Thes' at school," Theta Sigma answered. One hand still rested on the head of the dog and he hung back.

"'Thes' it is, then. Now come on!" the Master snapped impatiently, and the dog vanished. Thes's breath caught in his throat and he clenched his hand, hoping in vain to feel the soft fur between his fingers. A gust of wind tugged at his clothes, the cold biting through his thin jacket, and he found himself feeling his isolation more than ever. For a fraction of a second, he allowed his gaze to linger on the desolated beach before it dissolved around them both.


	25. Chapter 25

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

The Master's eyes followed Thes's, watching him carefully as he stared around the room. Analyzing his face, his expressions were almost unreadable, for a human's, but the Time Lord couldn't fail to miss how the young man's attention honed in straight away on the TARDIS in the corner of the room.

"Perception filters don't work on you," he observed, and Thes took in the words and thought for a few moments before nodding slowly.

"Those…those…ah…on people's-"

"They're called Time Beetles," the Master supplied. "And these ones have an aversion field as well – which would be particularly effective on you, I can imagine." Thes wasn't quite sure what to make of that and returned to scanning the room with his eyes, taking in a jagged, splintered hole in the door; the sumptuous carpet and furnishings; the computer that hummed on the desk.

"Do you know where we are?" Thes shook his head. "We're in the former Prime Minister's office," said the Master with barely a nuance of emphasis, although he could tell that Thes had noticed the choice of words. He sat down behind the desk, leaning back in the chair and resting his feet on the edge of the desk. It crossed Thes's mind briefly what his parents would say if they could see those dusty black workboots on the spotless varnish.

"I'm in the Prime Minister's office…" he murmured, his gaze sweeping the room again.

"Hey!" The room dissolved around them and the Master sat up, finding himself suddenly in a squashy red armchair in one corner of a living room. "Stop that!" he snapped at Thes, who was hurrying towards a door, through which voices could be heard. In a blink, they were back in the office and Thes stood with his back to the desk, hands pressed against the wall. He hung his head, and the Master laughed unpleasantly.

"What…what _is_ it?" Thes choked. "Just explain it! Please!" He swung around, desperation in his eyes. The Master stood up, and the two were suddenly standing atop a flight of stone steps, looking out over a busy town square. Thes's eyes darted across the scene from person to person, while the Master watched, observing how the Time Beetles' aversion fields responded so strongly to the troubled human.

"Each one has created a parallel dimension around its host, and then reproduced in each alternate dimension, passing the offspring onto new hosts," he explained. "Now there's too many – it causes a strain on the fibres that hold universes together, and reality is falling apart."

"Did you cause it?"

"Oh, like I'd ever!" the Master chuckled sarcastically. "Actually, no - I merely took advantage of a situation…made sure no-one got in the way…"

"Like me?"

The Master shrugged.

"That depends."

"Everyone's got them."

"But it's still not enough…" Thes's eyes widened, and as if anticipating his inquiry, the Master added, "Just watch." A crack ripped its way through the paving stones of the square from the Master's feet across to the door of a little café and widened to become a gaping crevasse. The people crossing to and fro across the square moved on, seemingly oblivious, and Thes cried out in horror as several toppled forwards into the bottomless blackness, only to reappear on the other side and continue walking as if nothing had happened.

A wild shriek rang out across the square, and heads turned to see a homeless woman clad in nothing but filthy sheets who had been sitting at the bottom of the steps unnoticed. She pointed with a bony, trembling arm – straight towards the ravine that divided the square. Thes had been toying with the idea that the Master was somehow messing with his head, fooling him into experiencing elaborate hallucinations. He had heard of 'power of suggestion' and the like, and still in despair for an alternative explanation, he had clung to the thought. At that shrill sound of terror from the wretched woman, though, his heart sank and he stared into the blackness of the crack…so inviting…so very _real_… It snapped shut and he became aware of the Master's voice again at his shoulder.

"You see? It's not quite enough. There's some who can see it, here and there. And a few more who are starting to notice. But it's just little things, insignificant things. I need _more_."

"But why? Why do you want to do this?"

"You might learn that soon enough."

Thes shivered, feeling a pang of envy as his attention landed on a group of young men and women, about his own age, crossing the square. Maybe he knew them – he couldn't be sure. They chatted amongst themselves, moving obliviously across the square like they moved through their lives – with hardly a care in the world. Mundane worries and day-to-day concerns were their whole existence, and Thes longed more than ever to see through their eyes – or for them to see through his, just for once. Yes – why should he just step away from everything he was? Why shouldn't they be the ones to understand _him_?

The Master watched as Thes's eyes clouded over with a mood he knew intimately, and smiled to himself. The human was a nuisance, certainly – but at least the Doctor hadn't had a chance to put any heroic ideas into his head. There was still something of an enigma about him, though…

"Now you can enlighten me, Theta Sigma Moreau," the Master said. Thoughts interrupted, Thes started at the sound of his name spoken with a tone of significance that even he couldn't fail to miss. "It's a very unusual name – tell me, where did it come from?"

"My great-grandmother named me," Thes answered hesitantly, suspicious of the Master's sudden interest. "She died a week after I was born. My mother agreed, for my father – she was his grandmother."

"Is your father alive? What about his parents?"

"No – my biological father died when I was one. His parents both died before that." Uncomfortable under the Master's intense scrutiny, he turned his head, removed his glasses and began to polish them on the corner of his T-shirt. When he replaced them, the town square was gone and he was once again in the Prime Minister's office, just inches away from the anachronistic blue Police Box.

"What is this?" he asked, edging away from it cautiously. The Master was seated at the desk, focused on the computer, and replied without looking up, holding up one finger for silence.

"It's called a TARDIS. It's a…time machine, spaceship – use your imagination." A flicker of childhood memory crossed Thes's mind, and almost without thinking, he flashed a thumbs-up to signal that he had understood the sarcasm. Why couldn't the Master just answer the question, though, he thought with a surge of frustration. The Master sent him a baffled glance and then returned to ignoring him, and he stood awkwardly for some minutes, combing his fingers through his tangled hair, before approaching the desk and peering at the screen of the computer. An array of complex coding in unfathomable symbols met his eyes – although the text on the screen itself was incomprehensible to him, he couldn't help but wonder…

"What do you think?" the Master said suddenly, swiveling around on the chair to face Thes in a gleeful manner that seemed almost childlike. "Latvia or Finland?" On reflex, Thes opened his mouth to answer, and then clamped it shut again as the full implication of what he was being asked dawned on him. Seeing his discomfort, the Master folded his arms and leaned back in the chair.

"Go on – pick one," he grinned. Thes knew it would be futile to protest, and his mind whirled for several long moments, drawing blank after blank. He could feel the Master's eyes on him, waiting, relishing the internal struggle he had caused in the young man. At the corners of his vision, the edges of the room seemed frayed, his subconscious searching frantically for an escape while the Master held the world in place around them with an iron will. Finally, his brain seemed to settle into a calculated resignation and he found himself processing and comparing facts. Land size…population…

"Latvia," he said in a flat monotone, and the Master reached out and idly tapped a key on the keyboard. Thes's eyes lingered on the key and he registered the Master's words somewhere in a detached part of his mind that couldn't quite accept what the stroke of that key had meant for millions of people somewhere.

"Of course, I'm going to need Finland as well eventually. The virus is only a temporary foothold – someone will find a way around it sooner or later. The _real_ control…well, this place simply isn't big enough." He gestured dismissively around himself with one hand, Thes's eyes darting between him, the computer screen and the TARDIS as he realized the scale behind the Master's words – '_this place_'.

"I'm going to advance your planet's space exploration program by about 5000 years."


	26. Chapter 26

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

Getting a bit bleak here, isn't it? Plenty of fanfics where the angst comes from the plot; not many where the plot is _caused_ by the angst! Well, here you are, all my loyal readers - have a paradox muffin to lighten the mood! *hands around paradox muffins* Watch out - I got them from the future, so if you eat them, the universe might implode.

* * *

The Doctor was tired – no, more than that – he felt utterly drained, exhausted beyond belief. In a way, his confinement in the deepest reaches of the impossible dimensions of the TARDIS was a relief. He simply lacked the will and the energy to go on – to do _anything_. Armed with the knowledge of his impending death, he had thrown everything he had into that desperate race against time itself at Christmas, so many months ago. But death had not come, and he had continued, drawing on an imagined reserve of strength to push himself to even further limits with a new purpose.

"_A Time Lord lives too long."_

He had told himself that more than once in the immeasurable stretch of time since the TARDIS had been pulled through reality to materialize around him. And he felt it, through every aching muscle in his body and right to the back of the darkest recesses of his world-weary mind. This regeneration had run its course – he had nothing more to give… but if he had, he would have given it – and more – to feel that burning cascade of regeneration energy wash over him, cleansing him, dismantling the cells of his body and rewriting them anew. A fresh start.

That was why he was confined, though. Isolated in this impenetrable cell in the TARDIS, he was safer than anywhere else in the universe.

"_The artron energy given off in the regeneration process would kill the Beetle__."_

It struck him as ironic, even now, how after all these centuries of trying to kill him, the Master's plan – and probably his continued existence – depended entirely on keeping him alive.

A new presence, a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, drew him out of his thoughts, but he remained where he was, sitting with his back to the wall, one knee drawn up to his chest, one hand idly picking at a threadbare patch on his coat. He couldn't stop his eyes from following the Master, though, the blackness of his clothes standing out starkly against the sheer whiteness of the room. The Master walked slowly around the Doctor and into his field of view, where he stood surveying him, waiting. Still, the Doctor was motionless and silent, and eventually the Master spoke.

"Now don't tell me you're going to give me that silent treatment again, Doctor!" he said in a friendly tone, sitting down cross-legged opposite the Doctor. He took a long look around the room, and then laughed. "Doesn't _this_ seem familiar? You should've known I wouldn't stand for second place for long!"

"You were never second place." The Doctor's voice was devoid of emotion.

"Wasn't I? I was-" A flicker of translucent blue crossed his face and he caught himself just in time, composing himself before allowing the energy to glow through his flesh without showing a sign of pain. "I'm dying – and you, the good Doctor, thought I could be your patient. You thought you could make me _better_?"

"You could be," the Doctor replied quietly. "You could be…" He trailed off – what else was there to say that he hadn't said already? And then his voice took on a tone of bitterness. "I was trying to _help_ you. Oh, I thought I'd just about run out of mercy now – run out of forgiveness. No second chances. But you…"

"Ooh, did I break your hearts?" the Master teased. "What a pity you're going to be stuck in here when the _real_ fun begins!" The Doctor turned his head away, adamant that he would not give the Master the satisfaction of asking how his schemes had turned out, but the Master continued anyway. "Should I update you on how your precious human race are forging ahead, just like you always said they should?" Suspicious, suddenly alert, the Doctor's eyes flickered in the direction of the Master, who winked.

"Their space exploration program especially," he said with a proud beam. "I'm _so_ proud of them – perhaps you were-"

"You have _no right_!" the Doctor shouted furiously, immediately regretting his outburst – he knew that he had been goaded into exactly the reaction the Master had wanted. The translucent figure leaned forward, the glow of his life energy fading to reveal a dangerous light in his eyes as he whispered

"And who sets the rules, Doctor?"

A chill ran down the Doctor's spine as he met the eyes of his foe and felt that for the first time in so many long years, he truly understood the twisted logic that the other Time Lord had allowed himself to become.

"Aah – you've finally realized it too, haven't you?" The Master's eyes held the Doctor's with a steely intensity, boring into him – the Doctor had the unsettling impression that the Master's voice was inside his head as much as outside, before he shook himself free. With a satisfied smirk, the Master leaned back.

"Nearly as easy as that old man," he chuckled. "How's your conscience lately, by the way? Would have thought you'd have learned about messing around with humans – look what follows you. Pain. Fighting. Death. Me, even!" He paused and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Now, your latest find..."

"What about him?"

"Rather an…_unusual_ name, don't you think?" The Doctor's stomach lurched – he hadn't told the Master Theta Sigma's name. Which meant…

"You leave him alone, do you hear me?" he warned. "Do what you like to their history – do what you like to me – but leave him _out_ of it!"

"But I can't do anything to _you_," the Master pouted. "Not any more. I need your timeline intact. Young Thes Moreau, on the other hand…now he doesn't even _have_ a Time Beetle!"

"Just leave him-" But the Master was already gone, leaving the Doctor to bury his head in his hands and try to shut out the memories of all the trust that so many people had placed in him – and all the times he had failed them, time and time again.


	27. Chapter 27

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes.

* * *

Theta Sigma Moreau was sinking. Plucked out of everything he took for granted, he felt as though he had been thrown into a pit of quicksand. The more he tried to fight it, denying what simply could _not_ exist and refusing to believe what his life had become within a matter of minutes, the more he could feel it sucking at him, tugging him down into a quagmire of hazy realities where he could barely distinguish his memories from his dreams from his wild imagination. Imagination – that was the only key he had now, the only thing that could make any sense. If he could imagine that he had imagined…

"…_reality is falling apart…"_ It made sense, logically – every definition of the words fitted what he could feel. So, he created his own reality.

Curled up on his bed with a hardback novel propped up on the pillow, it was as if he hardly noticed when the Master stepped through the wall beside the window. The whole room shifted a metre or so forwards, the whitewashed wall melting around the Master and pushing him out. With a little "yip" of alarm, the dog by Thes's feet jerked awake and raised her head – Thes reached out to run a hand down her back, reassuring her, and her tail flopped languidly.

"Don't think you can dismiss me, Thes." Startled, Thes sat bolt upright, hands fumbling and losing his place in the book. The Master stood in the room once again, beside the wardrobe this time, watching Thes with amusement as the young man's eyes darted around the room which stayed solid and immobile.

"And I'll have my office back now," the Master added. "I have a planet to run, you know." The untidy bedroom vanished, replaced with the plush carpet and elaborate wallpaper of the Prime Minister's office – but not before the Master had had a chance to notice the study guides and notes tacked to the walls: diagrams of the nervous systems of various Earth species and lists of biological chemicals and neurotransmitters. By the time the computer on the desk was back in existence, it was whirring and several alerts blinked on the screen.

Thes slid down to sit cross-legged against the wall; the dog recovered from her confusion quickly and began sniffing in the ornamental fireplace. As the Master settled himself at the desk, Thes resigned himself to passing the next several hours held where he was more effectively than if he was manacled to the wall. The Master had made it quite clear to him that he was an inconvenience that he could do without. What had also been made horrifyingly clear was just how unpleasant Thes's waking life could become if he tried to escape or distracted the Master with the wanderings of his mind creeping into the room. For the most part, he just followed the Master around or stayed where he was told. Apparently, since the Master couldn't get rid of him, but couldn't leave him to wander around disrupting reality as he pleased, he was just going to "keep him". Thes thought that had been a rather odd way of putting it – but apt, nonetheless.

To his surprise, he realized the Master was regarding him thoughtfully, and he buried his hands in the soft fur of the dog, suddenly uneasy.

"You were studying neurophysiology, Thes?" the Master asked. Thes was almost too bewildered by the unexpected question to reply.

"Uh…biochemistry."

"What about your family?"

"My…my mother is a…"

"What about the one who gave you your name?" the Master interrupted. Thes shrugged, narrowing his eyes and wondering what use the Master could possibly have for the probing questions. He was no judge of character, but even he got the impression that the Master wasn't one to concern himself with other people…unless he was fishing for information to use against him, perhaps? A stab of fear caught his breath in his throat…his family, who had no idea where he was – as far as they were concerned, he was staying at university over the summer break to complete some practical work. If only, he thought bitterly.

"Why do _you_ care?" he demanded.

So there was some defiance in the human after all, the Master observed, mildly surprised. He hesitated before answering, and when he did, he surprised himself.

"I knew someone who went by your name once." There couldn't be any harm in telling such a tiny detail of the truth for once, and watching the relief that passed across Thes's features, he wondered if there really was anything more to the strange coincidence than just that – a coincidence. Reality was becoming more unstable by the day, after all. As an afterthought, turning back to the computer, he added, "Not quite as _celebrity_ as 'Harold Saxon', of course!" Instead of the shudder of disquiet he had expected to see out of the corner of his eye, though, Thes appeared only more mystified than ever. Several long minutes passed before Thes spoke again, his voice once again quiet and apprehensive.

"A teacher asked my mother about my name when I started school. My mother said my great-grandmother 'said it meant something to her once. Couldn't say what, though. Odd, for her – still the sharpest knife in the box, even at her age!'." His voice took on a different tone as he recalled the words, and the Master looked up at him, eyebrows raised in astonishment.

"How long ago was that?"

"Fourteen years," Thes replied. He shook his head self-consciously, turning his head to watch the dog chewing a dusty tome on a bookshelf, wondering how much the leather-bound volumes were worth.

"Do you remember what I told you that was?" the Master asked, nodding over to the blue police box that still stood in the corner of the office.

"'It's called a TARDIS, it's a time machine, spaceship, use your imagination…'"

"What did Harold Saxon say to the media when he arrived back from Buckingham Palace?"

"'This country has been sick, this country needs healing, this country…uh…this country needs medicine, in fact I'd-'"

"You have a photographic memory?" Thes fidgeted and said nothing, eyes fixed firmly on the dog.

"Well, you'll be very pleased to know," said the Master, standing and flicking off the computer screen, "that I might have a use for you."


	28. Chapter 28

**The Obligatory Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, creatures, features, gadgets, gizmos or TARDISes. This will be the last disclaimer for this fic - I consider the rest to be one big update, it's just split into chapters to make it a bit easier to read.

* * *

"Aren't they _wonderful_, Doctor?" The Master was standing a few metres away from the Doctor, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels with excitement. "The human race – so inventive, with their computers and their satellites and their new 'digital age'! Oh, come on – not even a smile? It's ironic, isn't it? _Isn't it_?"

The Doctor watched him sadly – always so _infuriatingly_ sad! And pitying – what possible reason could he have to pity him now?

"Oh, you're no fun!" the Master snorted scornfully. "Not like my people out there – cut off a business's electricity for five minutes and the CEOs are practically begging to obey me! Mmm…capitalism…" He sighed happily, and then let out a peal of laughter. "And just you wait 'til our little fractal has spread itself a bit further! You know, I think I might take the TARDIS with me – just so we can continue our little chats. I owe it all to you, after all!"

"You can't let it get any worse," said the Doctor flatly, warningly. "It won't be possible to-"

"Hah! You still don't get it?" The Master tapped his temple with one finger. "_I_ decide what's possible now."

"What about Thes?" Concern showed on the Doctor's face, and the Master rolled his eyes.

"Actually, he's fine. I even managed to make him useful. He's supervising the construction of Earth's first intergalactic hyperdrive shuttle."

"What?"

"'What' what? The hyperdrive shuttle?"

"No – Thes. Supervising it? Of his own free will?"

"Ah, you know – reality gets in the way sometimes. Earth's best engineers, working to my designs, but every time they start believing something will work, it falls apart. _Slight_ technical hitch," he admitted. "But that's where Thes comes in – they show him the problem, ta-da, problem solved! He's holding the whole thing together – my human sellotape. And I didn't hypnotize him, if that's what you mean." The Master tried his utmost to look offended. "Practically impossible, anyway. He's a bit…" He shrugged, trailing off as the Doctor caught his eye with an unfathomable expression showing through the mask of despondency.

"Still finding his feet, I should think," the Doctor said nonchalantly.

"Oh yeah? What's that supposed to mean?" the Master retorted irritably.

"Hasn't been around long, has he? Well, he will have _now_, of course. He's always been there _now_."

"What are you _talking about_?" the Master growled. The Doctor shouldn't be taking control of the conversation, not now, not when the Master was supposed to be in charge of _everything_!

"Don't ask me," said the Doctor, leaning his head back against the wall and letting his gaze wander around the room. "You're the one who understands it, aren't you?" The Master's eyes widened as he realized…

"What – you think he's…"

"Well, don't tell me you were _expecting_ someone like him to turn up!" There was silence as the two Time Lords held each other's eyes for an interminable pause, before the Master eventually broke away, shaking his head in disbelief. Without another word, he turned his back on the Doctor and strode through the isomorphic door.

...

"So by the time these boosters are assembled, we can start locking and riveting the first panel layer." The foreman nodded, following the engineer's finger across the time planner with his eyes. The diagram of lines and dates spread across several sheets of paper stapled together and folded inside a clipboard – now, they were spread out on a workbench, and both foreman and engineer struggled to decipher the mess that the plan had become. Black scribbles obscured whole sections that should have contained days – sometimes weeks – worth of work, and here and there, thick red arrows denoted shifting of resources from the black scribbles to blank spaces.

"What about the people who were working on the ignition stabilizing circuit?" the foreman wondered, tapping a scribbled-out square. "What's happened to 'em?"

"Finished," the engineer answered shortly, head down. "We moved them to interior electronics yesterday." The foreman didn't argue. He had barely been working on this project a month now, and already he understood why his predecessor had been so keen to quit. The whole thing was a logistical nightmare, a collage of schedules that were constantly having to be chopped down, spliced and rearranged to accommodate…well, no-one was really too sure _what_ exactly they were accommodating. No expense had been spared – although the economies of over fifty countries were beginning to suffer for it, if what little news had managed to filter in to them was to be believed. Every single person present was among the world's elite in technicians, planners, electricians – and yet, nothing seemed to come together quite as it should have. Supervisors of whole sectors of the manual labour would come to the planning office and report a task complete sometimes days early – but they had learned early on that no resource was to be wasted, and the mechanics were immediately reassigned by the increasingly bewildered and frustrated planners. Logically, it should have caused massive problems with a backlog of tasks that remained on schedule, but – and this was what baffled the planners more than anything – in terms of progress, the whole project was running so smoothly it was almost surreal. No-one had ever been involved with anything like it – as one electrician had put it, you typically ran into more issues plugging in your first ammeter in college. And yet, here they were, dealing with designs that were impossibly complex almost to a point where people were suggesting it was not of this world, and not a hitch in sight that lasted more than an hour.

"So doesn't that mean the glaziers have to wait another day?" said the foreman, pointing to another box that was almost surrounded by scrawled notes and scribbles.

"No – they're…oh, this is _impossible_!" The engineer screwed her eyes shut and rubbed them with the heels of her palms, and then drew a deep breath and took another look at the charts. "O.K., so the interior electronics have to…"

"Should we tell that kid?" The engineer drew in her breath sharply and their eyes met across the table.

"No," she said firmly. "I don't care what the boss said – it's ridiculous." The foreman glanced furtively around, before leaning in and lowering his voice to a cautious whisper.

"Know what you mean – I wouldn't trust either of 'em myself." The engineer's eyes drifted across the expanse of the hangar to a lone figure on a balcony and lingered there sadly. So young – what could a teenager, barely out of secondary school, possibly be doing here? He couldn't have a chance of understanding anything that he was shown – but that seemed to be his whole purpose, as far as any of them could see. They hadn't been told anything about him – only his name, 'Thes', and the strict instruction to show and explain to him every slight glitch, no matter how trivial it seemed.

"It's just that he won't solve anything," said the engineer.

"Well, our great overlord seems to think otherwise!" the foreman muttered, voice dripping with bitter sarcasm.

"He's a nutter. We all know that," the engineer began, and was hurriedly shushed by the foreman. She dropped her voice until it was barely audible and continued. "Reckon he really is that Saxon fella?"

"Nah. Some computer-hacking nobody, I should think – some lookalike milking it for all it's worth. Saxon got shot, didn't he?"

"Oh, and you've never seen _James Bond_?" the engineer snorted. "They can stage anything on TV these days. I reckon he was onto something with that alien stuff and the FBI wanted him."

"Well if he is, he was right about one thing," said the foreman darkly. "The government don't tell us nothing."

"It's 'don't tell us _anything_'," the engineer corrected him irritably, frowning at a tangle of red arrows. She ran her finger along one, but it quickly became obscured in the mess and she groaned, tugging at her hair. "What's going on? How are we supposed to get anywhere when all the plans end up looking like _this_?"

"Tell Thes."

"Tell Saxon," the engineer retorted, glancing briefly at the foreman and doing a double-take as he shook his head vehemently.

"I'd rather take my chances with Thes." The engineer scrutinized his face for several long minutes, and then rolled her eyes, exasperated.

"Fine. Go on – you go and get him, then." She couldn't help noting the relief that passed across the foreman's features as he turned and headed through the throngs of workers that milled around the structure taking shape in the centre of the hangar. When he returned, the nervous teenager was following a short distance behind, shuffling his feet on the slick concrete floor.

"Thes. Hi," the engineer greeted him, forcing a smile. "We're having a bit of a problem with the time-planning charts."

"Hi," Thes replied with an awkward half-smile, looking down at the table.

"I expect you can see the difficulty we're having," said the engineer. "All the plans look like this – things keep finishing early, and we have to reallocate the workers to something else, so everything's being rearranged all the time. We can't keep track of anything that's going on." Thes was silent for a long time, examining the plans thoughtfully while the engineer mouthed at the foreman over his shoulder.

"This is _pointless_." The foreman shrugged.

"We're all following orders here," he muttered.

"Do you understand?" the engineer asked Thes, not unkindly.

"I…uh…no, no – it's…" Thes stammered, shaking his head hard.

"Ah – glad to see you're making good use of your resources!" a voice called, and all three looked up to see the Master strolling over to them. He was dressed now in a white shirt with a black tie and smart, pressed black trousers. Over the top, he wore a black formal coat, and his hands were gloved. As he approached, he waved cheerfully, and the engineer noticed Thes's fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

"Well?" said the Master when he reached the table. "Aren't you going to say hello to your Master?" His eyes were fixed on the foreman, and the foreman replied immediately in a mechanical monotone.

"Hello Master." His eyes widened and he paled, raising a hand slowly to his mouth and then his head.

"Hi," Thes murmured, almost inaudibly. The engineer scowled and pressed her lips together defiantly, and to her surprise, the Master barely gave her a second glance, instead placing a hand on Thes's shoulder to steer him away from the table. To her annoyance, she found herself exhaling and relaxing as the two departed – but then the Master turned his head and caught her eyes, and she froze. It was only for a fraction of a second, but her mind seemed to run in slow motion and she found herself staring into a cold emptiness, eyes which glittered with ages-old madness and power. Then it was gone, and she realized that she had broken out into a cold sweat. Mind groping blindly for something to focus on, she looked down at the charts on the table, and a shudder shook her whole body. The illegible scrawls and scribbles were gone, replaced inexplicably with rows of tidy squares, clearly ordered and labeled in evenly-spaced print.

"But…wha…" she breathed, her throat constricting.

"Like I said," came the foreman's voice, and she raised her head. "The government don't tell us nothing."

Walking briskly to keep up, Thes tried to shrug the black-gloved hand off his shoulder or pull away, but the Master's grip held him firmly and he squirmed uncomfortably, his whole body tense. He was aware of the Master watching him closely, contemplatively. Almost as unpleasant was the knowledge that every worker that they passed as they crossed the hangar was watching them warily. It almost hurt, to be so mistrusted and feared by complete strangers – he wondered how the Master could be so unfazed by it, even seeming to enjoy it. Thes had tried, at first, to get along with the workers – but there were so many, their faces blurring into one as they came and went, and he realized quickly that they merely tolerated his presence and only spoke to him under the Master's orders. Worst of all, they regarded him in the same way he had seen them react to the Master – that apprehensive respect that was grown from uncertainty and fear. Thes felt more isolated and disconnected than he had ever felt in his entire life.

They stopped about halfway to the far end of the hangar beside an iron pillar with a PA system, and the Master took a long look at the growing shuttle before turning his back on it and pushing Thes by the shoulder to do the same.

"So," he said, removing his hand from Thes's shoulder and spreading his arms. "What do you think?" Perplexed, Thes stared at him.

"The…clothes?" he replied, feeling rather stupid as he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Well, I've got to look presentable, don't I?" the Master grinned, brushing a speck from the shoulder of the immaculate – and probably very expensive – jacket. "Earth's first ambassador to the stars, you know."

"But…" Thes shook his head. "The head planner told me yesterday that there's still probably at least a year to go."

"You'd better start getting ready too," the Master continued as if he hadn't heard.

"No," Thes insisted. "It's nowhere near finished. It's-" He jumped, startled, when the Master suddenly delightedly clapped his hands and laughed, turning back to face the shuttle.

"Oh, well _done_!" he exclaimed. "Good boy!" Thes turned around, already knowing what he would see – he knew perfectly well what the Master had been doing, how he used him. Sure enough, the bare bones of scaffold were now fleshed out with shining, riveted metal panels that coated a solid form of some sort, and enormous rocket engines jutted out from the bottom and sides. Each individual part was still incomplete – panels were missing from the outer shell; the rocket engines were hollow, containing only a few basic components; and there were no doors or glass in the windows – but it was a shock, nonetheless. Gazing at the awesome, towering structure, Thes couldn't help but feel a surge of pride – _he_ was responsible for this!

"Feels good, doesn't it?" The Master was trying to make eye contact with him, but he was still fixated on the shuttle. "All that power. Just think, Thes – anything could be possible. Wouldn't you like that?"

"I…I'm….I'm not sure." Once the initial elation had passed, Thes was beginning to feel slightly nauseous, and he tore his eyes away from the shuttle, focusing instead on some chips of glass scattered by his feet. He began nudging them into a straight line with his toe, drawing comfort from the symmetrical pattern that he was creating with the chips evenly spaced apart and parallel with a crack in the concrete.

"Stop that," the Master snapped, attention back on the shuttle. "Watch – this is where we find out how much they take for granted here." Already, some of the workers had stopped in their tracks and were gaping, speechless. Gradually, more and more paused for a moment to mentally question, and as they did so, Thes's new version of reality overwrote their own and they saw. Mouths dropped open, tools fell from hands and a stunned silence descended on the whole hangar. Here and there, a few people had continued obliviously coming and going for some time, one or two even walking straight through the wall of the shuttle, and were now only waiting to see what had caused their workmates to react.

Thes felt his cheeks burn red as every pair of eyes fixed on him and the Master, and he hung his head, shrinking into himself and wishing he could sink through the floor. The Master stood straight, hands behind his back and eyes darting from face to face, noting those scattered people who appeared unfazed and were merely looking for the source of the sudden change in activity. With one hand, he picked up the microphone of the PA system and coolly addressed the workers.

"Keeping you all on your toes, then." The workers exchanged worried glances. Somewhere, a spanner clanged onto the concrete and the sound echoed off the high ceiling, ringing in their ears. Slowly and deliberately, the Master pointed to the workers he had noted and met their eyes so that even though some were almost right on the other side of the hangar, there could be no doubt who he had selected. He beckoned with one finger, and then spoke into the microphone again.

"Carry on." The workers began to move again, converging on their areas of expertise to reassess their tasks. None spoke a word, shooting furtive glances at the Master and Thes as they went about their work. What could they say? They had seen the impossible, and those who apparently hadn't were now quaking in dread as they set down their tools and began walking across the hangar towards the Master. The Master turned on his heel and headed for the edge of the hangar where a heavy wooden door led to a small office. He was smiling – Thes now felt sick to his stomach with guilt and hurried after him.

"What are you…what are they…what's going to…" he choked, unable to phrase more than fragments as his anxiety welled up within him.

"Just a little…selection," the Master replied happily. "Don't you worry – or would you like to help?" Thes nearly retched, and with his desperate mind racing, he stared in horror at the pallid faces of the summoned workers and they vanished. The Master stopped, hand on the doorhandle of the office, and scanned the hangar – and then his mouth twisted into a cruel smirk.

"Pity – I would have enjoyed killing them myself, but if you think you've earned it…"

"I didn't kill them," Thes mumbled, trying to steady his breathing although he could feel bile rising in his throat at the Master's words.

"Oh, yeah? What do you think you did to them, then?"

"I…I _didn't_ kill them," Thes repeated adamantly. "That man…the Doctor…he said 'just not here at this particular time any more'." The Master rolled his eyes.

"No fooling you. You want to know what else the Doctor thinks?" he asked.

"The Doctor's still…?"

"Yes, he's alive – I need him, unfortunately. And he's got a theory about you."

"_Me_?"

"You, Theta Sigma Moreau," the Master's voice dropped to a whisper, "are not real. You are a by-product of the breaking down of reality. You don't exist." Thes could only stare. He wondered if the Master might be joking…he hoped it was a joke, because the alternative – that he had been roped into the schemes of a lunatic – was decidedly unpleasant. The idea was certainly bizarre enough to be a joke, but he had overheard enough snippets of conversation from the workers building the shuttle to suspect that the latter option might have more than a grain of truth.

"You're both insane!" he eventually declared, and turned his back, stalking away across the hangar towards the shuttle. The Master raised his eyebrows, and then shrugged in acknowledgement.


	29. Chapter 29

The interior of the shuttle was sleek and spotless. Corridors of white plastic, narrow with low, curved ceilings, ran in parallel lines through the length of the ship, criss-crossed to divide rooms and sloped down at the tail end to connect the levels. In the heart of the shuttle was a massive engine room which could be reached in minutes from almost anywhere – all around its circumference, like spokes on a wheel, the corridors emerged onto a balcony with an aluminium mesh floor and smooth aluminium railings around the edge. From here, it was possible to climb any one of a number of ladders to reach parts of the complex machine powerhouse that alternately hummed and roared with a whole spectrum of pitches. It sounded, Thes thought, like amplifier feedback at a death metal concert, complete with the shrieking of the audience in the background. And when it wasn't deafening, it was actually quite a fascinating sound. He could spend hours in here, eyes closed and legs swinging over the edge of the balcony, just listening to the distorted dissonance as the shuttle sailed through the vacuum of space.

It was preferable to being with the crew, at any rate. The twenty or so people who had been picked out to venture into space were not astronauts, Thes knew that. In fact, as far as he could tell, they were probably just picked out from the labourers who had been working on the shuttle in its last few months of construction. And every single one seemed to be so deep in whatever hypnotized trance the Master had put on them that it was as if they were drugged. They moved silently around the shuttle, attending their duties with the relentless uniformity of robots, staring with sightless eyes and showing no sign of response when Thes tried to speak to them. Men and women, of all ages, backgrounds and nationalities – but they did have one thing in common. Now that they no longer moved of their own free will, the aversion fields seemed to hold no sway over their actions, and Thes could see clearly the Time Beetles that clung to their backs – which were all gravid females that had not yet been able to find a host for their offspring.

The implications of that had been fairly easy to imagine; less easy to believe. Then again, simply the fact that he was here, sitting in the engine room of a spacecraft that the Master claimed was 5000 years advanced for human technology, heading for stars so distant that Earth's most dedicated astronomers were not even aware of their existence, was suspending disbelief enough. Thes had long since stopped wondering whether he _believed_, as such.

An atonal purr entered the discordant mash of sound emitting from the engine and the volume dropped. Thes found his mind straying back to the hangar on Earth, when the Master had first informed him that he was to be a passenger on the shuttle. He had protested – he was too young, completely inexperienced, and his physical fitness was a far cry from anything a space traveler would be required to have, surely.

"_Oh yes, I forgot – your species still takes three months to get a satellite to Mars, don't they?"_ the Master had laughed.

Thes still wasn't quite sure what to make of that. It wasn't the first time the Master had spoken as if he considered himself separate from humanity – something superior even. Impossible as the idea may seem, it would explain a lot, Thes reasoned – not least of which, his appearance when Thes had first encountered him, with his face and hands translucent blue, bones showing clearly through his flesh. In fact, if it weren't for that, Thes could perhaps have convinced himself that it was just another delusional belief of a madman. He wondered what exactly the Master was…and with a wry smile, he wondered what his father would say if he knew that Britain had once elected an alien as Prime Minister.

In the end, Thes had been informed that he would be personally responsible if the shuttle disintegrated the moment it left the Earth's atmosphere with the twenty or so crew on board, and he had reluctantly boarded. To his surprise, his fears had turned out to be unfounded. The take-off had been smoother even than an aeroplane, rising smoothly through the atmosphere and out into open space as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and the whole ship sustained artificial gravity throughout the flight. The accessible parts of the ship were not extensive, presumably due to the need for efficiency, and during the past week or so since they had left Earth, Thes had paced the corridors countless times and ventured into every last cupboard – with the exception, of course, of the Master's private quarters.

Some part of the massive engine began to emit a shrill squealing noise that clashed jarringly with the soup of frequencies, and Thes climbed to his feet and departed the engine room. He padded along the corridor in his socks, eyes closed and the fingertips of his right hand trailing along the smooth plastic wall. If one of the crew happened to be coming the other way, they would simply step around him, paying him no more heed than if he had been some inanimate object. Eventually, the sounds of the engine had faded and he opened his eyes to see where his random wanderings had taken him. To his dismay, he found himself at the entrance to the control room, the largest room on the ship apart from the engine room. Six massive screens took up most of the walls, the ceiling and the floor, projecting an image of the exterior of the shuttle from all sides, and in the centre, a square control panel was covered in smaller screens, dials and switches.

The Master stood at the control panel with his back to the door, and Thes took a step back.

"Hello there!" the Master called out without turning his head. "Don't act like you're not pleased to see me!" Thes shuffled into the room, trying to focus on the control panel – he couldn't help feeling dizzy at the sight of the black, star-speckled screens around, above and below him.

"Look at that – see that star, over there?" The Master pointed to a distant, glimmering speck; Thes forced himself to take in the image on the screen and nodded. "That's your sun."

"My sun," Thes said quietly. He drew a deep breath and raised his voice. "Where's yours?" The Master made no reply, and Thes wondered if he had gone too far.

"S-sorry…I-" he stuttered, rubbing his forearm hard with embarrassment and shaking his head hard.

"So, I've already got control of the more-or-less intelligent life around _that_ one," the Master interrupted, tapping the dwindling speck on the screen that was Earth's solar system. "And _this_ is where we're headed next." He strode across the room and jabbed a finger at a brighter, closer star, grinning broadly at Thes. "And after that – well, I'll be able to take whatever ones I want, won't I? Maybe…mmm…_that_ one. And that one – ooh, and I've always wanted to pay _them_ a little visit!" He skipped nimbly around the room pointing to an array of specks of various sizes and colours, and then clapped his hands with delight and laughed. "Won't it be _fun_? I should take a photo of this – tick them off." While Thes watched wordlessly, he mimed a ticking action over Earth's sun just as it vanished into the distance. It occurred to Thes that he probably ought to feel something, seeing his solar system left behind like that, but in the sea of tiny specks that surrounded him, he found it impossible to convince himself that he was in any way more connected to that one than any of the others.

"Don't you think it's exciting?" the Master persisted, trying to meet Thes's eyes. The young man shrugged noncommittally and rubbed his arm again, and the Master headed back to the control panel and started adjusting dials. "I wonder, Thes," he said without looking around, "what _does_ make you…tic." Thes's cheeks flushed red as he caught the snide pun, and his fingers twitched as he tried to restrain himself from fidgeting self-consciously. A surge of resentment welled up within him – he had to bite his lip to stop himself from attempting to retaliate, especially when the Master continued. "No, really – where did you come from, Thes? What caused you? We both know the Doctor couldn't have done it…"

There it was again – that inexplicable concept, which Thes hadn't brought up again since that day in the hangar. It was beyond him, how the Master could possibly believe that he, a human being of flesh and blood, was just some sort of side-effect. It made no sense whatsoever – after all, hadn't the Master been questioning him about his family at one time? If he wasn't real, where did that leave them?

"I found out something about my great-grandmother, by the way," he remembered suddenly. "You were asking, so I looked on the internet – back when the shuttle was being built."

"Oh, yeah?" said the Master, glancing at Thes and continuing to turn dials, pursing his lips as his eyes followed a series of numbers on a screen embedded in the control panel.

"Found something, too – turns out she was quite well-known once. Best neurochemist of her day – but she was banned from practicing medical research for conducting experiments on people." The Master had stopped watching the numbers on the screen, and Thes could tell he was now listening, although his head was still turned away. "Just before she died, she confessed something to my grandparents, apparently. She said she was a deserter – said she had been working on some sort of biochemical weapon during a war, and she abandoned them. Interference and bureaucracy, she said. Everyone said she was going senile in her old age, though – there isn't any record of her being involved in-" He was cut off abruptly – the Master slammed his fist down on the control panel, eyes blazing.

"Stop it," he hissed. "You're not real – you're _not_! You _can't_ be! It's impossible!" He took a step towards Thes, who drew back – and then spun around and strode from the room. His footsteps could be heard hurrying down the corridor, and Thes felt a little prickle of pride growing somewhere inside him as he realized that the tables had just been turned, if only for this one instant – somehow, he had unnerved the Master. With a pleased grin, he leaned back against the control panel and watched the veil of stars ahead of him growing as the shuttle hurtled through space.

Inside his private quarters of the shuttle, the Master threw open the door to the TARDIS with such force that the wood splintered around the hinges. Barely pausing for breath, he ripped off his gloves, flinging them to the ground, and began tugging levers on the time capsule's control panel. In the centre of the console, the time rotor remained silent and motionless – the only sign of activity was a winking red light, "DIMENSIONAL INSTABILITY". With increasing desperation, he smacked buttons and flicked switches, sidestepping around the console in a frantic dance. Still, it refused to respond.

"No!" he gasped, wrenching a handle nearly out of its hinge. "No no no _no_ NO! You can't do this to me!" He kicked a panel viciously, and then with a snarl of rage, smashed the little red lightbulb with the heel of his palm and swept the crushed glass to the floor. Tiny cuts stung his hand, but he ignored them and stormed out of the console room into the labyrinthine interior of the TARDIS.

...

The sonic screwdriver glowed, emitting its familiar whistling buzz as the Doctor flicked through the settings. It was more of a nostalgic gesture, really – he knew his TARDIS well enough to know that it would be impossible to escape with the aid of his faithful little gizmo…although he lingered on the "sedate" setting for some time longer than the others, allowing himself to ponder a few possibilities. Any plan now, though, would be futile the instant the Master became aware of anything happening.

A smile crept onto the Doctor's face as he reached a range of culinary settings, some of which he hadn't used for centuries. Capsaicin detector – now _surely_ that would have been useful at least once in the past hundred years, he thought. Suddenly, the wall parted and the Doctor leaped to his feet, shoving the screwdriver deep into his pocket. He opened his mouth in preparation for a cheerful greeting, but stopped short at the sight of his captor, eyes wild with urgency and pinprick beads of blood on one hand.

"What-"

"Make it move!" the Master ordered, striding towards the Doctor.

"What?" The Doctor gritted his teeth in pain as the Master struck him across the face.

"Your TARDIS! It won't enter the time vortex – but it'll listen to you, won't it? Now make it move!"

"Ohh…" The Master moved his hand again, and the Doctor quickly added "It's the dimensional instability, isn't it?"

"_Do something_!" the Master hissed, gripping the Doctor's shoulders with both hands.

"I can't," replied the Doctor matter-of-factly, calmly meeting the Master's eyes. "It's your reality 'fractal'. The TARDIS is too sentient. If you entered the time vortex, you'd be stuck there for good – the TARDIS wouldn't be able to land anywhere tangible. We're stuck in one time stream as long as everything's in this state, with these parallel dimensions sprouting off in all directions." He held his breath as the Master took in his words, eyes wavering as he realized the sense of it. Abruptly the Master pushed him back and ran his hands through his already dishevelled hair.

"Just calm down," the Doctor pleaded. "Tell me what's happened."

"She was _here_, Doctor!" the Master burst out, and began agitatedly pacing up and down. "Here! On Earth!"

"She…? Ohh…" The Doctor drew a deep breath as he realized. "No – that's impossible. We were the only survivors. They're all gone."

"And do you think _she_ wouldn't have known what was going to happen?" the Master laughed bitterly. "She was more brilliant than either of us, and we got out. She was _here_!"

"'Was'?"

"She died a human!" the Master spat. "Can you imagine? Her! I have to-"

"Master, just stop," the Doctor interrupted. "Just for _once_, stop and think. All this – what you're doing to reality – it has to end _now_."

"But she would die a human, and we would never know!"

"We can't do anything about that anyway – the TARDIS can't move, not with reality so unstable."

The Master stopped his pacing and leaned back against the wall, burying his head in his hands, the blood on his hand leaving smudged red streaks across his forehead and through his white hair.

"What have I done…?"

"I can end it," said the Doctor quietly, cautiously moving towards the Master. "Let me out – if I regenerate-"

"Then what?" the Master snapped. "All that would leave would be the timeline with no Time Beetles. You dead or regenerated, and me most likely pulled into the Time Lock. This is _my_ universe – you would be destroying my universe! I can control _reality_ here!"

"But can't you see what it's doing to you?" said the Doctor gently, putting a hand on the Master's arm. "At least let me help you."

"Get off me!" The Master pulled away, and the room was plunged into blackness. His voice, hoarse with anger, continued to rise in volume. "You think I can't control it?" Dazzling light forced the Doctor's eyes shut – when he managed to open them again, he was squinting in the light of the open sky. "This is _my_ world!" A howling wind roared around them both, causing the red grass beneath their feet to billow in waves across the hill that reached only as far as the four walls of the room. "Reality is _mine_ now!" Crimson blades of grass around the Doctor shot up out of the ground, growing at a blinding speed and wrapping themselves around his legs, arms, throat, tugging him to his knees. "I am the _Master_ – and I. Have. _Control_." The blades of grass rocketed upwards, lifting the Doctor off his feet and hurling him back against the white wall. Around him, the nightmarish caricature of once-familiar scenery dissolved, leaving the sterile whiteness of his prison. Breathing hard, both Time Lords met each other's eyes, and without another word, the Master whirled around and headed for the door. The walls shone with an unnatural light, which cleared to leave massive silver mirrors in place of the walls, floor and ceiling – and then the Doctor was alone with countless reflections of himself and his Time Beetle parasite on all sides.


	30. Chapter 30

The engine had dropped to a low rumble now that the shuttle was in orbit over the large moon. Far below, sapphire seas were marbled with streaks of yellow – spits of mostly desert land formed from ancient volcanic activity connected at low tide by sandy reefs. No doubt the Doctor would have had something poetic and sentimental to say about it, the Master thought as he stood at the shuttle control panel surveying the terrain on the screen at his feet. Sathsthisthiria did have its advantages, though – not least of which was the fact that with the whole landmass interconnected, the population was evenly distributed across the surface of the moon with constant mixing, gene flow and migration. Another curious thing about the Sathsthisthirians, actually – they could, and would, breed with just about any species, their cells possessing various enzymes that rearranged the non-native DNA to make it compatible. A mongrel species – hardly a purebred specimen among them, although they had retained the same form for hundreds of thousands of years – but a fairly solitary, independent-minded one. Plenty of individual decisions to be made.

And once enough of those decisions had been made…once enough timelines had been split…once disintegration and instability had encroached upon the realities of every sentient being in the universe…

Control would be absolute. The Master smiled to himself and drew back several levers on the control panel to begin the shuttle's descent into the atmosphere.

...

Detailed line-drawings formed an elaborate mural on the walls of many metres of the spotless white corridors. The black permanent marker pen squeaked slightly on the smooth plastic as Thes put the final touches to a sketch of a seagull perched on a mooring post at the end of a long jetty that jutted out into a sea of sweeping lines. He stepped back into the centre of the corridor to admire his handiwork – not bad, he decided. Not that it mattered, really, with not another human being who would see or pay any attention to it for several light years. In a sudden flash of carefree mania, he scrawled out in haphazard letters taller than himself, "THES WAS HERE!" down the remaining stretch of corridor, accompanied by a stick figure sporting round glasses and a scribble of long hair. He met the lopsided line eyes of the stick figure for a second, and then turned and flung the pen back down the corridor. The clack of the pen against the plastic floor rang loud in the stillness, and listening, Thes became aware of a change in something. Something was missing…the air seemed strangely empty and still…the engine! The undulating vibrations had grown familiar during the long weeks aboard the shuttle, and Thes could detect it from almost anywhere, so its unexpected absence was more than a little unnerving. Could it mean they had stopped? Were they drifting in the vacuum of space…or had they actually landed on an alien planet?

The sound of tramping boots was approaching now – Thes stepped back against the wall and the human crew appeared around the corner, glazed eyes staring ahead, moving with their dazed, trudging gait straight past Thes. Last of all came the Master, striding confidently with the air of a stockman herding cattle. He glanced at Thes as he passed, but said nothing. Avoiding him had become considerably easier since that day in the control room – Thes suspected with some sense of satisfaction that the Master had also been avoiding him. Briefly, a rebellious daydream crossed his mind of slamming the shuttle door behind the Master the moment he disembarked and taking off in the shuttle by himself.

_Space joyriding…_ Nothing more than a fantasy, of course – he had no idea how to fly the craft – but he entertained himself with the thought while curiosity got the better of him and he followed the Master down the corridor, maintaining a cautious distance behind.

The Master observed with a touch of disdain the doodles that covered the walls of the corridors. Trees, seagulls, houses, that dog again…such humdrum Earth pictures. He was aware of the young man following him – what a pity the Sathsthisthirians had not yet developed space travel technology of their own that he could acquire. The sooner he had no further need of Thes, the better. He didn't think Thes would object to being out of his sight. Maybe with Sathsthisthiria implanted with the Time Beetle parasites, he would be able to find a way so that Thes could no longer object to anything…

The door hissed open, the gangplank unfolded and the humans and one Time Lord stepped out onto the compact, dusty sand of Sathsthisthiria's arid surface. Already, several of the tall, elegant creatures were investigating the exterior of the shuttle. They received off-world visitors fairly regularly – along with six other populated moons, besides this one, that orbited a massive gaseous planet incapable of sustaining life – but they were an inquisitive species, and spacecraft so often brought suitable breeding partners. The Master watched a number of them rubbing their blue-furred cheeks against the sides of the shuttle, averting his eyes in disgust when a male turned his back on it and raised his tail.

"Don't you dare scratch that!" he ordered to a group of younger Sathsthisthirians who were clustered near the hull of the shuttle, and one guiltily retracted his claws and slunk away to investigate the crew.

The crew were dispersing among the Sathsthisthirians, just as instructed – and just as expected, the Sathsthisthirians were showing plenty of interest. An unusual amount of interest, in fact… One approached the Master, green eyes coyly averted as she smelled his hair.

"Time Lord…" she purred. "How…unusual…" She ran her paws down his arms and wound her long tail around him, tugging at his coat.

"Don't even _think_ about it," he retorted, shoving her roughly away. Her pointed teeth showed as she emitted a small hiss, the fur standing on end on her arched back – and then she caught sight of Thes, who had stepped up beside the Master and was staring, wide-eyed and incredulous. Her pointed ears stood straight up and she padded over to Thes, who flinched as she drew close to him. It occurred to the Master that Thes had never been inside the TARDIS, so the alien language was still totally foreign to him. To both of their surprise, the Sathsthisthirian's eyes lit up with delight the moment she caught Thes's scent.

"Human!" she yowled, her tail sticking straight up above her head. Thes yelped in fright and jumped back, and the Sathsthisthirian playfully batted at him with her paws before turning and beckoning to him with a twitch of her pink nose.

"Wait – how do you know about humans?" the Master demanded. "They should be thousands of years off getting this far into space." The Sathsthisthirian winked at him. Thes had disappeared – presumably back inside the shuttle – and rather than pursue him, she made for the hissing, spitting fray that was taking place over the human crew members. Most odd, the Master mused. The Doctor wouldn't have hesitated to get to work solving the mystery, but the Master couldn't wait around any longer than necessary. Nevertheless, it looked as though the Sathsthisthirians were sorting out their hierarchy, and the Master had no wish to be present while the two species interacted and the Time Beetles passed on their offspring. He began walking around the edge of the shuttle, breathing in the Sathsthisthirian air with some relish – it was _so_ good to finally be off Earth for the first real time this regeneration. Suddenly, a voice – unexpectedly close – broke into his thoughts.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Before he had a chance to respond, he found himself hauled bodily off his feet by the front of his shirt and coat and slammed back against the hull of the shuttle, his temporal senses on fire at the unnatural fixed point in time that was Jack Harkness.

"Where's the Doctor?" Jack growled. Too winded to reply, the Master could only struggle weakly. "I mean it – if you've hurt him, I swear I'll-"

"You'll…do what?" the Master managed to choke. "I…control…rea-"

"_Shut up_!" Jack cut him off, shoving him hard back against the metal wall again to emphasize his words. "I ought to break your back." The Master forced himself to look straight at Jack, taking in how very _there_ he was, how very real… It was no good – the man was a fixed point. He wasn't moving anywhere.

"Get your…filthy hands…off me…" The Master's skin glowed transparent several times in quick succession as he tried to bring his life energy to the surface, but the _wrongness_ of Jack's very presence was jarring at him, his proximity distorting his thought processes until nothing was clear except that perverted timeline around the centuries-old human. There had to be something…but he couldn't think, could barely breathe, and Jack's meaty fists were pressing against his chest, crushing him against the shuttle.

Unseen by either of them, Thes had turned the corner and frozen, transfixed at the sight of this man who held the Master half a foot off the ground against the side of the shuttle. He wasn't one of the crew, who all wore plain blue boiler suits – so what was he doing on this alien planet? Thes winced as the man bellowed for the Master to shut up, slamming him against the wall once again. Cautiously, half afraid that this strange man – or alien, or whatever he was – would turn on him next, Thes crept closer. Something was wrong, he could tell – the Master appeared dazed, his pupils pinpricks, struggling to focus – perhaps he had been half knocked out… And then Thes shuddered with horror as he heard the next words.

"Or maybe I could break your ribs," the man brought his face close to the Master's, "one…by…one. I know how that would feel – thanks to _you_!"

Thes turned his attention to the man, solid, in the flesh…who remained undeniably there as though reality still had the same hold on him that it would have had before the first Time Beetles even appeared. But _why_ – he looked so human. Then again, so did the Master…

"What have you done to him?" the man snarled in a menacing whisper, and the Master let out a gasp of pain. Thes didn't pause to wonder who he might be referring to – the man was clearly intent on following through his words, and Thes didn't think he would be able to back away now without being noticed, or bear to see that kind of torture inflicted. His mind moved to the hull of the shuttle, layers of sheets of metal and insulation…completely impermeable and unyielding…

"Hey!" the man shouted as the Master sank back into the shuttle and passed through the hull. Hands pushed off the front of the Master's clothes by the liquid metal which was still solid to him, he pounded on the side of the shuttle.

"Get back here, you coward!" He turned with a curse and his eyes fell on Thes, who recoiled. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the man too surprised and Thes too terrified to move. Then the man took a step forwards, and Thes retreated, nearly falling back when his foot landed on a stone.

"Hey, c'mon kid," said the man. Thes's eyes darted wildly towards the shuttle, and he moved towards it. "No – don't-" The man lunged towards Thes, who cried out in alarm and dived straight through the wall of the shuttle. The last thing he heard before the wall sealed behind him was the man's voice calling out urgently, "Find the Doctor!"

Inside, the enclosed walls of sharp geometric metal were a startling contrast to the dry, sandy landscape outside, and Thes took a moment to realize where he was – the bottom of the engine room in a gap between the monstrous machine and the wall. Gradually, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light that filtered down from the balcony far above, he could make out the Master standing just a few metres away in the shadows cast by the engine, leaning against the wall.

"What…who…was that?" Thes stammered.

"That was Captain Jack Harkness," the Master replied with more than a trace of anger in his voice. "So typical of him, to be hanging around on a sordid little moon like this." He straightened his shirt and coat with both hands and began heading down the gap towards the ladders that led up to the balcony.

"Is he…like you?" Thes asked hesitantly.

"I am a Time Lord," the Master answered coldly. "And Jack is…a freak. A fixed point in time." He raised his eyes to the balcony overhead and vanished, leaving Thes alone with more than one troubling thought. So the Master was a Time Lord, and that man – Jack – was a fixed point in time. Not just space, but now _time_ – Thes's head was spinning, and he was struck by a crushing sense of how little he really knew.

And now that the adrenaline that had coursed through his veins was subsiding, a heavy feeling began to descend on him and settle in the pit of his stomach. What the Master was doing was wrong – he knew that, had known from the first moment he saw him – if not before, when the Doctor had told him of "someone very dangerous coming"…but what could he do? He was no-one, just nineteen years old, just hopeless, awkward, lonely Thes. All he could do was stand by while the Master twisted and broke the essence of how people saw their world.

Then Jack had appeared…and what had Thes done? Run, like the stupid coward he was, too squeamish and weak to stand back and let Jack do what could have been the only way to stop the Master – and worse, he had taken the Master with him. He slid down the side of the engine and slumped to the floor, forehead pressed to his knees and dry sobs racking his body. At his back, the engine began to grumble and groan – the shuttle was taking off, Thes doubted the Master would have waited for the crew to reboard, and they were leaving behind what could possibly have been the only hope. Except…

"_Find the Doctor!"_

But he had no idea where the Doctor was – he hadn't even known he was still alive until the Master had told him so back in the hangar. Could the Doctor even do anything? The Time Beetles were everywhere, billions of them, and now they would be spreading through the alien population they had just been introduced to. Despair overtook him, and he submitted, slipping into a well of guilt that sat on his chest like lead.


	31. Chapter 31

Hours passed, and eventually the heat that radiated from the shuttle's engine became stifling in the little gap where Thes was curled. He stood up shakily, head pounding with dehydration. A wave of dizziness struck – the world spun and swayed, and he stepped forwards unsteadily until his hands met the ladder. He rested his head on the cold metal, breathing deeply, and then began to climb. He knew where he was heading, although he wasn't quite sure what to look for when he got there. The only thing that was certain was that he could not go on as he had been, just following the Master around like an obedient dog.

The door to the Master's private quarters was light aluminium like all the others on the shuttle, and Thes had no doubt that it would be locked securely. He held that thought as he pushed on it – it swung open at his touch. Inside was a room with another door set into the wall opposite, but Thes hardly noticed that – there, in the centre of the room, was the TARDIS. He approached it nervously, remembering with a grim smile his initial reaction to being informed that it was a "spaceship". Nothing would surprise him now, he thought as he pushed open the door.

He was wrong.

Inside that impossibly tiny box was a whole world. A vast chamber with coral arches stretching to a vaulted ceiling, incomprehensible controls on a hexagon of panels surrounding a glass column, and a pale green light reflecting off steel railings around a raised deck. It had to be an optical illusion… Thes reached inside with one arm and waved his hand, expecting to brush the back of a wooden box through a hologram of some sort. Nothing – just clear, slightly warm air. He withdrew his arm and walked around the outside of the TARDIS, and then took a deep breath and stepped inside. Once again, he was plagued by that sense of the almost complete insignificance of his knowledge. At the far end of the room was another door, and a thought occurred to him.

"_Find the Doctor!"_

Was it possible that the Doctor was being held prisoner somewhere inside the TARDIS? Thes mentally scolded himself – nothing was impossible now. He crossed the room and passed through the door into the seemingly endless corridors and stairs of the TARDIS.

In the first corridor he reached, after descending a twisting flight of stairs, closed doors lined the walls and more corridors branched off at all angles. A mental image flashed through his mind of wandering infinite, endless corridors for days on end, and he faced it with calm acceptance – after all, what else was there to do? This was going to take a long time, he knew as he raised his hand to the first door – chances were, that was…reality.

The door that hissed open before him was not the same door as he had stood in front of a moment ago, and it was at a dead end of a dimly lit corridor with creaking floorboards beneath his feet. Inside, there was movement from all directions – no, just one movement, a man climbing to his feet in the centre of a room constructed of seamless silver mirrors.

"D-Doctor…?"

"That's me," the Doctor replied with a relieved grin. "Good to see you, Theta Sigma." Thes tried to force a smile, instead finding himself biting his lip and hanging his head in shame while behind him, the door slid shut. The Doctor had been trapped in here the whole time, right under Thes's nose – it was so obvious now, how could he not have guessed?

"I…I…" There was nothing he could say. He pressed both hands to his mouth, shaking his head, falling to his knees as his trembling muscles gave way. The Doctor's relief was quickly replaced with grave anxiety, and he knelt in front of the young man.

"What's the Master been doing to you?" That voice, so kind and concerned, only served to make Thes feel even worse. Guilt gnawed ferociously at his conscience – he didn't deserve sympathy, not now, not after all he'd done.

"N-nothing…he…" he mumbled, unable to bring himself to look at the Doctor. "I… I'm sorry! I'm sorry – I should have-" he burst out, but the Doctor interrupted in a gentle yet firm voice.

"What are you apologizing for?"

Thes fell silent again, although he desperately wanted to answer. He wanted to open his mouth and pour out the entire past few months that weighed on him so heavily. He wanted, somehow, to unburden himself onto the Doctor – to confess everything, and then… A desperate longing crept over him; he was lost for a moment in distant memories of childhood, alone at night in the grip of vivid nightmares, and then his mother, switching the light on and sitting beside him on the bed, that safe presence who could banish the dark and fear with a flick of a switch. He could never forget the nightmares – but neither could he forget that voice of adult assurance that could solve any problem in the world. The Doctor could do that – couldn't he? The Doctor would make everything all right. And Thes…Thes would be punished, of course, but that was right, that was how it had to be.

"Captain Jack Harkness…" he began. To his surprise, the Doctor's eyes lit up with recognition.

"Oh – you must have been on Sathsthisthiria! The blue moon of Lunarkensiel! Beautiful, isn't it? Did you see the Sathsthisthirians? Fascinating creatures – until you get to know their personal lives, and let me tell you-" He stopped himself. "Sorry – bit of a tangent there. You saw Jack? I dropped him off there. Did he tell you to find me?" Thes nodded, and then a stab of guilt hit him again.

"He…he could have stopped the Master, but I… I should have let him…"

"You did what I would have done," said the Doctor. "Jack is a good man, but he's been hurt more than you could possibly imagine, and he's encountered the Master before in less-than-favourable circumstances. I should be thanking you – killing the Master isn't the way." Thes could almost feel a weight lifted from his shoulders, and he exhaled slowly as if breathing out a part of the burden of that morning and letting it dissolve into the air. With the haze of remorse clearing, he was able to turn his mind to the myriad questions that had built up unanswered.

"Who is Jack?" he wondered. "The Master said he was a…a 'fixed point in time'. What's that?"

"It means he's…well, he's immortal. He can't die," the Doctor explained. "Time Lords can sense it."

"Ohh…" Thes paused, remembering. "When Jack was…when he got close to the Master, it was…uh…it was like-"

"Like he couldn't look at him?" the Doctor finished. "Yeah – it takes a bit of getting used to. I've known him for a while, but it still feels wrong, even to me."

"So you're a…a Time Lord too?"

"Yup." The Doctor smiled as Thes stared at him as if through new eyes – but his own eyes still held pain and he continued more seriously. "The Master and I are the only ones left now. That's why I could never… I would save him, if I could. If he'd let me."

"So why does he keep you in here?" asked Thes.

"To stop me regenerating," the Doctor replied. "It's something Time Lords can do when we're injured – sort of instead of dying. The process gives off a tremendous amount of energy, which these," the Doctor pointed over his shoulder to the Time Beetle on his back, "are vulnerable to. This was the first one. It split my timeline last Christmas – that's what started all this. In my alternate timeline, it was destroyed – now, if this one is destroyed, this dimension is erased and none of this will have ever happened. That's the only way to stop all this. You have to get me out of here – that door is isomorphically controlled." Thes didn't answer at first – he was replaying the Doctor's words over and over in his head while he tried to make sense of it all.

"…_split my timeline last Christmas…"_

"…_this dimension is erased…"_

"…_none of this will have ever happened…"_

"That would…destroy the universe," he said eventually.

"Only the part in the time stream since last Christmas," said the Doctor. His voice was grave. "It's the only way."

"So…so everything would be just…gone?"

"In a way, I suppose."

"But if you don't…regenerate…then what happens?"

The Doctor sighed and ran his hands through his hair.

"Then this dimension continues-"

"But surely that's better than destroying everything?" Thes interrupted, his voice high and rapid with desperation. "If the Master can be stopped-"

"He can't. I've known him for so long now – he can't even stop himself. He'll keep going, the Time Beetles will keep spreading and reality will keep breaking down."

"But he can hold it together!" Thes protested. "And I…" He trailed off and an icy chill ran through his veins as something occurred to him.

"_You are a by-product of the breaking down of reality. You don't exist."_

"What about me?" he croaked. "Will I…if there was only one dimension…would I be in it?"

"I don't know."

"But I'm real, aren't I?" Thes cried frantically. "I'm _here_, how could I not be real?"

"I'm sorry, Theta Sigma. I'm so sorry – I just don't know." Thes stood up, nearly stumbling in his haste. Heart racing, he looked down at the Doctor, who remained where he was. There was such sadness and regret on the Time Lord's face, but Thes hardly noticed. All around, his countless reflections seemed to stare accusingly back at him with a burning intensity, and he scrunched his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he stood alone in the control room of the shuttle surrounded by the opaque blackness of space.


	32. Chapter 32

"Welcome to Formicidae Colony 246," the Master announced with a sweep of his arms. Thes observed with some apprehension the pale brown and violet mottled planet that they orbited. It had been just under a week since Sathsthisthiria, Jack and the meeting with the Doctor, and he had once again found himself pacing the shuttle corridors. The crew had hardly been company, exactly, but now that they were gone, the almost complete silence was oppressive, leaving Thes starkly aware that he was now alone with the Master. Almost. Somewhere in the depths of the TARDIS, the imprisoned Doctor still waited in his cell of mirrors.

At first, Thes had tried to force himself to forget that the conversation between himself and the trapped Time Lord had ever happened – but that had been impossible, with every word replaying itself over and over in his head until it became almost unreal. He had pondered going back there, but each time the idea entered his mind, he was thrown into a panic - what would he do? Could he let the Doctor out of the TARDIS so that he could regenerate and effectively end the universe as it was? If he didn't, could he bring himself to face the Doctor again? There had been moments when he thought he had decided, and he headed for the Master's private quarters and the TARDIS, but the closest he had gotten was to the blue wooden door of the TARDIS, before the turmoil and uncertainty set in once again and he turned back. He had no delusions about what he was, and had called himself a pathetic coward so many times now. One minute he was berating himself…and the next, he was searching for an excuse in every thought that passed through his mind.

"_We can't all be heroes,"_ his mother had said to him once. Perhaps that was true – but if everyone told themselves that, then who was left to do what needed to be done?

He wasn't sure whether the Master knew that he had found the Doctor. Maybe he didn't care – after all, Thes had left him in his prison. Did that make him on the Master's side?

And then, out of the blue, for the first time on the whole voyage, the Master had sought out Thes on the balcony of the engine room and brought him up to the console room. Thes stood back, feeling decidedly uneasy.

"What are we here for?" he asked hesitantly.

"I have a score to settle," the Master answered, flicking several switches on the control panel to begin the descent of the shuttle. A message flashed up on a screen set into the control panel: "SHIELDS ACTIVATED".

"But what do you want me for?"

"Just a little…backup, you could say." He smiled at Thes, who shivered and returned his eyes to the viewing screens. This sudden change in attitude had him feeling suspicious and a little worried – ever since the last time they had talked in this control room, the Master had made no secret of the fact that the young man obviously unnerved him, for whatever reason, and he hadn't even tried to disguise the fact that he avoided him like the plague most of the time.

"And I'd just like to remind you, Thes," said the Master coolly, "that refusing me is a very dangerous thing to do."

Below them, on the screen that covered the floor, the ground was rushing up to meet them, causing Thes to sway with vertigo. He gripped the edge of the control panel and ran his eyes over the alien landscape, which was even more bizarre than Sathsthisthiria. Pale brown mounds, hundreds of them, covered the terrain…and tiny, black shapes swarmed over them in a tangled net of trails running in all directions. As they drew closer, the mounds grew in size, and so did the creatures that came and went through holes in the sides. By the time they landed, Thes gasped aloud at the sight of them, and cringed as they ran up the sides of the shuttle and he could see them in minute detail surrounding him on the screens. He tore himself away from the sight with some relief and followed the Master through the shuttle.

At the door, the Master stopped and turned to face Thes, who flinched – the Master's face was once again transparent blue and glowing with energy. He removed his gloves slowly and dropped them casually on the floor, raising his skeletal hands in front of his face and staring at them for a long time before the yellow orbs that his eyes had become swiveled towards Thes.

"Energy is limited, isn't it, Thes?" he said, and waited. Thes considered this – theoretically, yes, energy was limited by innumerable factors. He had studied in lectures at university – and how far away that all seemed now – various formulae for energy intake, consumption, expenditure and waste, all of which boiled down to basic finite mathematics. Yes, energy was limited. He nodded.

"Think about that, Thes," the Master instructed, his normal face showing again. "Just hold that thought – energy is always limited." He wrung his hands together, and Thes was startled to see sparks crackling across his skin. Then the door opened and they stepped down the ramp and into the centre of a milling crowd of Formicidae who hissed and clicked in alarm. Several soldiers raised their barbed forearms, preparing to deal with these invaders who had intruded so confidently into their nest.

"Formicidae Colony 246," the Master addressed them. His face flashed translucent again and again and he rubbed his hands together, the glimmering tendrils of electric blue energy winding between his fingers and up his arms until they covered his whole body. "You have displeased your Master." He brought his arms in close to his body as if hugging himself, and then threw them outwards and a blinding wave of energy ripped across the surface of the planet.

Thes realized what was about to happen a fraction of a second before the energy was released – he faced it, his heart leaping in his throat, prepared for certain death, and it passed harmlessly over him.

The Formicidae were not so fortunate. They hardly even had time to react to the Master's words before they were vapourised in a surge of light. Their buildings were instantly turned to dust and even the dust was atomized, and far below the ground, captives in glass tanks were burned to charred skeletons, the glass melting and running in red hot rivulets down the sides of the spiraling cavern. Deepest of all, many miles beneath the surface of the planet's crust, the Formicidae Queen screamed and writhed in agony as the energy penetrated her ancient exoskeleton and melted her from within.

When Thes opened his eyes, not a trace remained of the Formicidae buildings or the insectoid creatures themselves – the landscape resembled the site of a nuclear blast: flat, featureless and charred black as far as the eye could see. Behind him, the shuttle appeared somewhat the worse for wear, with patches of the metal hull still cooling from white hot, but was otherwise undamaged. And just a few paces away stood the Master, panting with exertion but with a manic light in his eyes as he surveyed the carnage he had created. He threw back his head and laughed, and then two bolts of energy shot from his hands and he propelled himself into the air with a triumphant yell.

Numbly, Thes watched while his mind raced back over the past year or so. All that he had seen – and done, although he had hardly believed it at the time – had already challenged everything he thought he knew about the world, about reality. The laws of gravity in his little university room; the structure of the world around him, which had become as fluid as the air he breathed; shuttles that crossed entire galaxies; alien planets and their inhabitants… Maybe he couldn't be so sure of anything any more. An entire alien civilization had just been obliterated by more energy than could ever be contained in a physical body. Maybe, he thought as his eyes fell on the Master a short distance away, energy was not limited after all…

The Master reeled and his breath caught in his throat as the life energy running through him suddenly began to dissipate itself into the air, draining from his body and burning outwards through his translucent flesh. His vision grew hazy and he doubled over, falling to his hands and knees in the dust with a gasp of pain. Frantically, he gritted his teeth and struggled to contain it, catching the last vestiges and drawing them back into himself, fighting against that almost-forgotten pain to retain consciousness. Face ashen, he turned to Thes.

"Energy…is…_limited_," he hissed. Thes could only gape in shock, shaking his head slowly. The Master pulled himself to his feet and took a step towards Thes, who drew back and stumbled, falling to the ground. The ash billowed around him, stinging his throat, and through a blur of watering eyes, he could make out the pale, black-clad figure of the Master advancing on him.

"Energy is _limited_," the Master repeated.

"No…no, it ca-" The words ended in a scream – the Master had drawn back his hand and sent a stream of searing energy straight at him. The bolt met its mark in the centre of his chest, pushing him back several metres in a cloud of dust.

"Energy is _limited_." The Master took another unsteady step forwards, raising his other hand; Thes scrabbled with his fingers on the singed earth, dragging himself back until another paralyzing jolt ran through him and he collapsed. Silver motes swam at the periphery of his vision and danced before his eyes.

"Energy…energy is…energy is limited…" he whimpered. Again, the Master's energy struck him in the chest, and he felt his heart skip a beat.

"You know how it works, Thes." The Master's voice seemed to grate harshly on his ears – he could barely make out the words. "You have to…_believe it_." On the last words, the Master forced another bolt of energy from his hand and stumbled, taking a half step to regain his balance as his energy surged through him. Thes could feel his throat growing hoarse, but he hardly had the voice left to scream. Some part of his mind, buried in the agony that consumed his body, took in the Master's apparent moment of weakness. When the pain eventually passed, it was as though no sensation remained in his body – he was a burned-out husk, an empty shell with just that memory: the image of the Master faltering as he poured his life energy into Thes. His mind held onto every minute detail and slowly, gradually, began to process.

The Master had been weakened…weakened by the colossal discharge of energy that had wiped out Formicidae Colony 246. He had released it, and now it seemed he barely had the energy to stay on his feet…he had expended it all… Therefore…

…it must be limited.

Distantly, he was aware of the Master's footsteps moving steadily away before he blacked out.


	33. Chapter 33

When Thes came to, he tasted dry ash in his mouth and gagged, forcing breath into his mouth through chapped lips. His fingers quivered weakly and brushed warm, fine powder that he lay on, and it took him several seconds to realize the significance of that: he was still in the charred desolation of what had been Formicidae Colony 246. And he didn't need to open his eyes to know that the shuttle was gone.

He was entirely alone. The Master had left him here.

Then, in a moment of clarity, that thought filled his mind – he had been abandoned in this silent wasteland, and the shuttle was gone. He lay alone on the surface of an alien planet.

For a moment, he thought he might have blacked out again with despair, and then clean, cool air filled his lungs and he drew in a long, shuddering gulp of it. The tips of his fingers rested on a smooth, hard surface – when he realized what had happened, he stopped himself just in time before this new reality failed. Slowly, painfully, his eyes opened and focused on the white plastic ceiling of the shuttle corridor and his black and white mural coating the wall.

...

In the shuttle's supply hold, the Master ripped savagely into the cardboard packaging of the crew's rations. Protein bars – he hardly even tasted them before he frantically devoured them. His whole body was racked with that intolerable, insatiable hunger, tearing at him, tormenting him. The meagre amount of energy the food gave him was nothing compared to the ache inside him that was never satisfied. Briefly, he wondered how much energy he had expended in his revenge on the Formicidae, before he was setting into another box.

That had been close – too close for comfort. Thes's weakness could have cost the Master dearly. As it was, he had regained control of his reality with some persuasion. The human was a loose cannon – the Master would have to be more careful in the future. After that slip, he had been left with his energy severely depleted.

He attacked another box in a frenzy, desperate, starving. Wafers of refined carbohydrate and lipid…anything, everything…more and more and more…

...

Thes remained where he lay, spreadeagled on his back on the white plastic floor of the corridor. Even if he had been able to convince his muscles to obey him, where would he go? What would he do? He was nothing now, just the 'human sellotape', the 'backup' – would he spend the rest of his life following the Master around and doing his bidding like some timid puppy? He couldn't do anything else – the Master was a Time Lord with more powers at his disposal than the manipulation of reality that Thes only had the barest grip on.

"…_so human…so _weak_…"_

It was true, it was _so_ true – he would never be anything else, and he accepted that. It was reality.

The change happened slowly at first. He felt his body cooling, but it was a pleasant feeling – it felt right, like coming down from a fever. In his chest, his heart, which had been fluttering since the Master's energy bolt had struck him, pumped with renewed vigour – but again, it felt strange. It dawned on him for a moment what could be happening, but he pushed the thought away – reality was in flux here, as was time.

Now where had that thought come from? Certainly, he was aware as he passed through time that fixed points were coming and going – he could feel them, could see them scattered here and there throughout the converging time streams of all of space, but…

His pulse which pounded in his ears pumped out a rhythm of four beats…

_...one two three four..._

…and all at once, he became aware of presences besides his own mind – other beings: one close by – that was the Master; the other further away, surrounded by some sort of flexible net in time – the Doctor in the TARDIS.

...

So hungry…so ravenously hungry… He ate and ate, but it still wasn't enough – his energy was dissipating itself faster than he could physically consume the food…

No. He had to stop – he had to control himself. Just focus… He wrapped his arms around himself and leaned back against the wall of the supply hold, concentrating on calming his ragged breathing. This was reality, this insatiable hunger – his energy was limited, and that was reality.

The overwhelming feeling subsided, just as he knew it would, and was replaced with something new – a pricking at his mind, something new…and yet, so old.

"No…no – that's impossible…"

A Time Lord consciousness that he recognized immediately, like an echo from his past.

_It's her…_

But she should be long dead – she had died a human, he knew that now. And all that remained of her human persona was…

_Thes!_

He threw himself at the door and raced down the corridors of the shuttle to where that consciousness called to him.

...

The Doctor scrambled to his feet as he sensed a change in something from the deepest-rooted part of his mind. That sense of another Time Lord's psychic fingerprint – the Master, so familiar, the presence he had known for centuries…something was happening to that consciousness. The Doctor's hearts ached with pity and sadness as he tried in vain to reach out.

"Oh, I am _so_ sorry…" he murmured.


	34. Chapter 34

Thes's whole body felt different, every cell fundamentally changed, but although he felt stronger and more aware than he had ever felt before, there was still one thing that had not changed. He was dying. Those bolts of life energy had burned him from the inside, melting tissues and damaging his cells beyond repair. He dragged himself to his feet, but could go no further.

"…_regenerating…it's__ something Time Lords can do when we're injured…sort of instead of dying…"_

The Doctor's words passed through his memory – but how could they help him now? New-found instincts told him that regeneration was a complicated and dangerous process, and he had absolutely no idea what it involved. It would be impossible. His mind grasped this, clinging to it, accepting and confirming it as truth…and all the while, at the back of his mind, he was aware of the innate fragility of his perception, the possibility that what he knew was not, in fact, reality.

Every muscle in his body seemed to go into a spasm, his arms jerking out straight and head thrown back as a rush of energy surged through him. Through a fog of golden mist, the last thing he was aware of was the hazy outline of the Master appearing at the end of the corridor from around the corner.

The Master shielded his eyes from the flare of artron energy, and when it cleared, he lowered his hand…and staggered back in shock. There, undeniably the source of the Time Lord consciousness that he could feel, stood a mirror image of himself, dressed in ill-fitting, baggy clothes that just moments ago had been worn by the human teenager called Theta Sigma Moreau. He could sense that consciousness so clearly, like a ghost from his past – but it wasn't her, _could not be_ her; and yet, its presence was so undeniably _real_ – Thes _had_ to be real.

All of a sudden, his doppelganger's whole posture altered in an instant – Thes's awkward, slouching stance was gone, and he met the Master's eyes straight on for the first time and opened his mouth. The voice that came out was the Master's own, but he would have known the haughty, sharp-tongued tone anywhere.

"I told you, you're unbalanced."

Then he was gone – just vanished into the air as though he had never existed.

"No!" The Master snatched wildly at the empty air as if he could drag Thes back into existence, make him tangible again so that he could punish him for playing such a cruel trick. Because it was a trick, wasn't it? A jarring shudder shook the whole shuttle, knocking him to his knees – the ship was breaking apart without Thes to hold it together. He scrambled to his feet and ran for the impenetrable safety of the TARDIS. All around, the metal hull of the shuttle screeched and groaned as rivets and joints disintegrated and reality bent the framework of the structure out of shape. The blood roared in his ears and his hearts pounded fit to burst, and all the while, that image of his bizarre, unnatural double was burned into his mind's eye. It seemed to flash before him at the edges of his vision wherever he looked – an infuriating spectre, just out of reach.

A deafening explosion came from the bowels of the ship – the engine – leaving his ears ringing, every sound deadened to a distant murmur. Slowly, his hearing returned, bringing with it a familiar beat that pounded in time with his hearts, a relentless rhythm.

_One two three four...one two three four..._

"_No_!" he shrieked, clawing at his head until he drew blood in crimson streaks down the sides of his face. He pressed his hands to his ears, but the drums continued, throbbing through his head, louder than ever. "No! Get out! Get _out_!" A wrenching crack resounded through the shuttle; over the drumbeat, the Master could make out a rushing hiss as the air began to leak into the vacuum of space. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and he ran again, the plastic of the corridor walls buckling and splintering around him. Just as he reached the corridor that led to his quarters, the lights flickered, glaring bright with a fizz and then dying completely, leaving him stumbling blindly through the darkness, reaching out to feel his way along the wall. The aluminium door was refreshing coolness beneath his hands, but he didn't pause for a second. Light from the TARDIS glowed faintly in the pitch blackness, and he threw himself against the door which fell open and then slammed behind him.

Even inside the capsule, safe and cut off from the chaos of the destruction of the shuttle, silence was nowhere to be found – everywhere, as though they were coming from the walls themselves, the drums beat on and on.

_One two three four...one two three four..._

In the pale green glow from the central console, shadows cast by the coral arches stretched out towards him, phantom fingers pointing, taunting, mocking.

"_You are __diseased…"_

"Get away from me!" he screamed, pressing himself back against the wall, eyes darting about wildly, searching for an escape. There – he made a dash for the entrance to the rest of the TARDIS and ran. He could feel it pursuing him, lapping at his heels as he ran and ran. It didn't matter where he ended up – he just had to get away from it, from that grotesque duplicate of himself with its voice that rang in his ears, from the drums that beat excruciatingly against the inside of his head.

_One two three four...one two three four..._

Now he was pushing through a swirling grey fog that seemed to grow thicker with every step he took, forcing him back and pressing down on him from all directions. He could taste it in his mouth, foul and choking like bitter ash, and he gagged and retched, doubling over.

"…_what are _you_ doing here?"_

Wraiths of mist loomed up around him, a circle of figures eight feet tall that closed in on him until he broke through and was again running, out of the fog and down into the farthest reaches of the TARDIS's dimensions. Inky blackness once again closed around him, and the drums were following him through the dark, echoing louder and louder until he felt his head would split with it.

_One two three four...ONE TWO THREE FOUR...ONE TWO THREE FOUR..._

And then the curtain of darkness parted before him and he was falling through the gap – and there was the Doctor, stood in front of him and around him and behind him, just standing, beating out the rhythm of four with both hands.

_ONE TWO THREE FOUR...__ ONE TWO THREE FOUR..._

"Stop, just stop!" He covered his head with both hands, trying desperately to shut out the sound, but it penetrated right to his bones with an agonizing tremor that was almost forgotten. There were arms around him now, a pair of hands on his arms – but it couldn't be the Doctor, could it, because the Doctor still stood impassively around him, the source of that perpetual pounding. The last threads of reality snapped, and he crumpled to the floor with a scream as his unstable life force seared through him, burning like molten lava. Every inch of his body burned with volatile energy that felt like it was tearing him apart from the inside out. Dimly, through the red mist of pain that crept across his eyes, he was aware of those arms around him, holding him, and he tried to lash out.

Then the core of his life force energy exploded out of him and it was over.

For a long time, the Doctor remained where he was, knelt on the floor of the prison cell, surrounded only by his countless reflections. A spasm of pain shook his shoulders as dissipating energy rushed through him, and he raised his now-translucent hands in front of his face.

In another parallel dimension, he was already long gone, and soon, that would be the only dimension he existed in. Wilf would be living his own life, and the human race would continue as it had for countless lifetimes along the road that was meant for it, trillions of years through the future, right to the end of time. The universe would be saved – but sometimes…sometimes, it was so hard, and he was so alone.

"I don't want to go," he called into the empty air as he threw his head back and golden light streamed from his face and hands. On his back, the Time Beetle was incinerated in a flash of shining artron energy. The billions of dimensions that it had seeded, every branch of the fractal, folded in on itself and in that fragment of a second, had never been, and there was only the root of the tree.

...

"Get out of the way."

The Master's eyes flickered sideways, and his razor-sharp mind quickly calculated - there was an option C after all. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as he flung himself to one side and the pistol's shot sounded. The transmitter focusing the signal through the White Point Star exploded in a flash of blinding light and scorching fire - behind it, Wilfred Mott, unnoticed in the nuclear containment booth, shielded his eyes as he heard the Doctor declare

"The link is broken! Back into the Time War, Rassilon! Back into Hell!"

As Rassilon glared in fury at the Doctor, a distant voice echoed through the tear in the Time Lock, and the white light grew brighter around the Time Lord figures silhouetted before the Immortality Gate.

"Gallifrey falling..."

"You die with me, Doctor," Rassilon spat, raising his gauntlet towards the unflinching Doctor.

"I know," he said. Behind him, the Master struggled to his feet, wringing his hands.

"Get out of the way," he said, and the Doctor turned in surprise to see the Master draw his hand back and hurl a bolt of pure energy past the Doctor and straight into Rassilon's hearts.

"You did this to me!" he snarled, rage twisting his features. "All of my life!" He drew back his other hand and flung another bolt. "You _made_ me!" Now he flung bolts in quick succession, counting out the beat that had resounded in his head for countless years. The unstable life energy inside him threatened to burn him up at any minute, flashing out from his core as he counted, making his failing body almost translucent.

"_One_..._two_..._three_..._four..._"

The blinding white glow now enveloped him, and as Rassilon and the Time Lords were sucked back into the Time Lock, the Doctor was thrown to the ground, dazzled. The white light faded - Rassilon had vanished, leaving only the ruined Immortality Gate and a cold, empty silence.

"I'm alive…" Struggling for breath, the Doctor lifted his head, slivers of broken glass falling from his hair.

"I'm alive…" he repeated, hardly daring to believe it. "I'm still alive…" Half laughing, half choked with tears, he began pushing himself up onto his hands and knees.

And then, resounding through the deserted hall, came a sound that froze the Doctor to the soul.

_One two three four..._

* * *

**THE END**

By Aietradaea

* * *

**Author's notes:**

Whew! That's it - the end of the line!

Well, I've had a _fantastic_, _brilliant_ time writing this thing! I feel like I've achieved my goal and grown as a writer - and judging by some of the feedback, there's quite a few of you out there who have enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Which is _awesome_!

And I know that last segment is exactly the same as the first. That's with a point - it's not just me being lazy - it's to show that it is _exactly the same_ moment in time.

I'm not generally in the habit of asking outright for reviews, but since this is my longest fic yet, I'd like to request that if you have read the whole blinkin' thing, _please_ leave a comment! Anything, even just a "wtf", just so I know how many people have actually finished it. That'd be much appreciated. :) Also, if you enjoyed it, do recommend it to other people who you think might be interested - I'd hate to see this thing just fade into obscurity and die.

A little note for those of you who do feel like writing "wtf" in the review: basically, my idea was that by manipulating the broken reality, the Master was reinforcing his own insanity, thereby bringing about his own downfall when he finally lost control.

Many, many thanks for reading this, my loyal, persistent readers! May you never be turned into Toclafane! :D

-Aietradaea:)


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